Cherie Priest - Fiddlehead

“That you did, but this one is … closer to the heart.”

She was confused. “My heart? Your heart?”

“To President Lincoln’s heart. Literally and figuratively.”

“You … you want me to work for Abraham Lincoln?”

“The situation is unusual—but not the same kind of unusual as usual.”

“You’ve always had a way with words, sir.”

He looked past her shoulder. “Do me a favor, dear—reach behind you and shut that door.”

She did as he asked, and he continued, but in a quieter, more serious tone. “Mr. Lincoln and I have remained friends for many years, despite the incident at the Ford. Depending on who you ask, my son either saved his life or ruined it, and Mrs. Lincoln held the whole thing against us for a while. Abe’s recovery came so slowly, and so incompletely.… Still, the president has continued to accept our service in good faith. He presently employs one of our D.C. operatives—a young man named Nelson Wellers, who happens to be a physician.”

“These days, I guess Mr. Lincoln needs a doctor more than a bodyguard.” Maria cocked her head and frowned. “But this Dr. Wellers is no longer sufficient? I worked as a nurse, but quite briefly, I want you to know; I wasn’t cut out for it. If you’re only looking to send me because I’m a woman—”

“No, no, no.” He dismissed her concerns with a wave of his cigar, leaving a trail of smoke to underline his impatience. “Wellers is fine. Nothing wrong with him. Mr. Lincoln doesn’t need a nursemaid or another security agent for himself. He wants to hire someone to investigate a crime against somebody else. ”

“Oh.”

“ Really, Maria. If I wanted to insult you, I’d do it more directly.” He lifted one elbow and retrieved a file, then set his cigar in the glass tray’s groove. “So here are the brass tacks. The man in question is Gideon Armistead Bardsley, a doctor from Alabama. Not the kind of doctor who fixes you—this one’s an inventor. A scientist.”

“Another negro,” she noted from the picture, a good daguerreotype that showed a long-waisted, broad-shouldered man in a suit that fit him well. He must be a little younger than she was, but she detected some lightness at his temples, the premature gray of someone who works too hard. “I’m sensing a theme.”

“Twice isn’t a theme, it’s a coincidence. Will it be a problem?”

“Wasn’t a problem last time. Won’t be a problem this time.”

“Good.” He slid some paperwork across the desk. As Maria started to read, he pitched her the highlights. “Dr. Bardsley was a slave in Alabama until a dozen years ago, when he escaped. He got as far as Tennessee.”

“No one sent him back?” The Bloodhound Laws were still on the books in the South, and anyone who’d returned the runaway would’ve been richly compensated.

“The University of Tennessee at Fort Chattanooga paid for his freedom, on the condition that he stayed there and made them look good. Brilliant man, this Bardsley fellow. A real-life genius, if his diplomas can be believed. In four years he earned a master’s degree in some kind of advanced math, and a doctorate in electromechanical engineering—a brand-new field. I don’t think any other school in the South even offers such a degree. The next year, he bought freedom for the rest of his family still living: a couple of brothers, his mother, and a nephew.”

“What was he working on in Chattanooga?” she asked, still absorbing the information on the pages before her. “It must’ve been profitable. That kind of buyout takes more than chump change.”

“Civic planning, if the public information can be believed. He felt there was no good reason you couldn’t generate power for entire cities with old-fashioned technology like water. He was developing schematics for water turbines that could convert the flow of rivers into electricity with the right kind of dams and wires. It’s a bit over my head, to be honest, even if it is true.”

“You think it’s not?”

“I think he was working on military projects. I can’t imagine any other reason the school would’ve paid for his life and his education.”

“A negro designing weapons for use against the North? I don’t know about that. ”

“Maybe not weapons. Armies and navies need a million and one things to operate smoothly. He could’ve been working on any of ’em. When you meet him, you can ask him.”

“Is he still in Washington?” The document in her hand was a courthouse copy, identifying him as a free man of color with an address in the capital.

“In 1876 he defected to the Union, taking his mother and nephew with him. He started out in Philadelphia, but moved to D.C. when Mr. Lincoln took a personal interest in one of his projects.”

Maria flipped through another page or two of biography. She stopped at an engraving of a machine emblazoned across a patent application. “‘The Bardsley Automatic Computational and Calculational Device,’” she read, eyeballing the diagram and marveling at its implied dimensions. “Good heavens, it must be enormous.”

“A whole roomful of a machine, I’m led to understand.”

“A whole mouthful, too. Why do inventors do that? Name their inventions such ridiculous things?”

“Any number of reasons, I’m sure, but the Lincolns agree with you, at least. When Mrs. Lincoln explained the project to Dr. Wellers, she called it a giant mechanical brain—a brain that could think faster, better, and more accurately than any man ever could. Wellers said that such a thing could really fiddle with a fellow’s head, and she laughed … so now the thing is called Fiddlehead for short. Think of it as a code name, if you like that better.”

“Got it. So the Lincolns are … what? Dr. Bardsley’s patrons? Sponsors?”

“Yes. And at the moment, they’re his lifeline.” He passed her a newspaper article, then continued. “Three nights ago, armed men broke into the doctor’s laboratory at the Jefferson Science Center, destroying a great deal of expensive equipment, and doing their best to kill Bardsley in the process.”

She didn’t lift her gaze. “Was the Fiddlehead itself destroyed in the incident?”

“Damaged, yes. Destroyed, no. Apparently the doctor tricked the intruders into vandalizing less interesting equipment.”

She set the newsprint article aside. “So he’s not just a brilliant man, but a clever one, too. Tell me, then: What was this Fiddlehead designed to do? A giant brain, you said, but everyone everywhere has a brain. What makes this one so special? What was it told to think about?”

“The war,” he said simply. “They asked it to analyze the war.”

“And the results were…?”

“Nothing I’m at liberty to discuss right now. You’ll get that information from Lincoln, as well as further details on your assignment. He knows more about the machine than I do, and I’m sure he’d be happy to fill you in.”

“Your certainty on that point exceeds mine, sir. Does he know you’re sending me ?”

“Yes, he knows. And I’ve assured him that you’re a consummate professional who will do the job you’re given, with no qualms, concerns, lingering political loyalties, or complaints. Do I make myself a liar, or do I make myself clear?”

“Abundantly clear, as always. But while I appreciate the vote of confidence—”

“I don’t need your appreciation; I just need your follow-through. Listen, Miss Boyd: Abraham Lincoln might not have been your president, and I understand. However, he is nobody’s president anymore, and right now he is my client.”

“But he’s still active politically, isn’t he? I’ve heard that he’s a vigorous advocate for ending the conflict, presumably with a restored Union,” she replied carefully.