That having been said, he was sure that it was well over two miles back to the Lincoln house. His feet were cold and wet and he didnt want to walk, but there wasnt much choice. He had no immediate means of contacting anyone, and he carried no money for the purposes of flagging down a carriage and buying a ride.
He disliked money on general principle. It had its uses, but it seemed insubstantialentirely too false. Little more than a promise on a piece of paper, written by dead men, miles and years away. Paper could burn, and paper could lie.
But the paper under his arm did not lie. It crinkled and crackled, urging him onward. Reminding him of what was at stake.
One foot in front of the other, he trudged along the roads edge, every step leaving his toes a bit more numb. It wasnt late, and the night still had room to get much colder; everything might freeze, he thought. If there was one single, solitary thing he missed about southern Alabama, it was the unimpressive winter weather.
(He missed it only fleetingly, and with some private disgust.)
There was never any question of where he might go now.
Home? Certainly not. It was even farther away than the Lincolns house at the edge of Capitol Hill. Besides, what would he do there? Sleep? Wait for morning, for a more reasonable hour to demand an audience?
He wished he had a bag or a satchel to hold the papers. Every few yards he adjusted them, squishing the unspooled document tighter and making sure nothing trailed on the ground behind him. He didnt know how much hed lost to the intruders interruption. Every surviving line was more precious than diamonds, but the cumbersome bundle drew stares from drivers and passengers, and from the men and women on their own trips home from a factory shift or an evenings meal on the town.
A line of shiny black vehicles came roaring up toward him, brightly lit from within and spewing odd-smelling diesel fumes. All of them built with technology stolenor, more likely, purchasedfrom the Texians, and spreading across the continent with speed that couldnt bode well for the Confederacy. Texas tech was one of their last remaining advantages, and it, too, was slipping from their grasp.
This thought made him smile glumly as he plodded forward. His feet had become blocks of ice, and his hands gone likewise numb. His gloves were back at the old hospital in the basement somewhere, lying atop the Fiddlehead. Had the roof held, or had the dynamite brought the whole wing crashing down upon the calculation engine?
Gideons pace slowed, then picked up again. Worrying wouldnt change whatever facts awaited him back there, and he couldnt return to find out. Not until morning, he suspected, and maybe not even then.
If the Fiddlehead survived, then it must survive as a secret.
He squinted against brilliant pairs of front-facing lamps. As one of the cars passed him, he heard laughter within. And music. Someone had brought a violin, and someone else was playing a fife. Despite the cold, some of the carriages had left their windows down, and as they rolled past, Gideon smelled expensive food and perfume, and alcohol and tobacco.
Somewhere in the city, a ball or some other gala event had just ended, and a beautiful room filled with finely presented tables was emptying, which meant that Mrs. Lincoln might not be home yet. She often lingered at these things, partly by her own preference and partly because she served as her husbands social eyes and ears, for the former president rarely left the house since his near-fatal injury at Fords Theatre. It was too trying, he said; too much trouble for other people to accommodate him. So he kept to his own home and his own grounds, which had been altered to better suit his needs.
Gideon kept his eyes open on the off chance Mrs. Lincolns buggy might pass by and he could flag her down, but it was not his lucky night. He walked the full distance, and by the time he reached the Lincoln estate his legs were heavier than lead.
So far as estates went, it was a surprisingly modest oneat least from the exterior; the inside was filled with expensive gifts collected
over the years from dignitaries near and far. The house itself was a simple two-story home with two wings, and a lift inside, for the president could not ascend stairs without immense assistance. Also due to Lincolns mechanized chair, all the outdoor paths were paved.
Gideon almost tripped over the first walkway he passed. He might have cursed except that he was so relieved to have arrived. Lights burned up the hill at the homestead, giving him more than the nighttime sky or traffic to navigate by. He homed in on these electric torches, drawn like the moths and mosquitoes that hovered around the devices in a buzzing cloud. Up the half-dozen stairs he climbed, bypassing the ramp because it was less direct. Even after his long, cold hike, he was more impatient than tired.
The front door opened before he could knock, and there stood a confused-looking Nelson Wellers.