Fiddlehead

“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 Te

“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 Te

“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 pla

“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.

Allan Pinkerton paused, settling back in his chair and peering thoughtfully across the desk at her. “Presumably,” he said at last. “I’ve never asked before, but perhaps this is the time, before I send you jaunting down to D.C. on a delicate mission—”

It was Maria’s turn to interrupt. “You want to know how I feel about the war.” She folded her hands atop the paperwork. She took a moment to organize her thoughts, then she told him. “It’s a hard thing to explain, you know. I earned my fame as a child, Mr. Pinkerton. I thought—and operated—with the fearlessness of a child, accepting what I was told by my nearest elders. I still believe some of it—or, it might be more accurate to say that I still feel some of it. The South was my home, and I do not believe it was fairly treated in the years leading up to Fort Sumter. When war broke out, the whole thing felt like a grand adventure.”

Pinkerton snorted. Maria smiled tightly, unhappily. “Oh, I know. A stupid thing to feel. But, again, I was still in my teens, and the war was young too. It hadn’t taken so much yet.” Her voice trailed off, then recovered. “So I sit here now, two decades and thousands of miles away from my youthful adventures, with tens of thousands of lives lost to a cause I didn’t understand very well and I understand even less now. And you want to know how I feel about the war.”

“Well,” he pointed out, “you still haven’t told me.”

She swallowed. “I still believe in the rights of states to self-govern, and some of the points the Rebels have fallen back on as they’ve lost slavery as a political option. But the older I get and the farther I travel, the less I think of slavery itself—and I won’t pretend the war would’ve happened without it. It’s complicated, that’s all. I understand why some people thought the subject was worth fighting over … but at this point, is it worth fighting further? I … I don’t think so. The South isn’t fighting for slavery anymore, but for survival. The North isn’t fighting for abolition anymore, but for reunification. And there are days when I feel … when I feel like the whole world is burning to the ground around us.”

Burned like her father’s hotel, and her brothers’ bodies. Like her family homestead. She fought to keep the bitterness out of her voice, but failed. The words tumbled out, landing in a pile between her and the man who’d saved her. “It’s taken enough already, from both sides, that any victory may be Pyrrhic. Give it another few years, and we’ll all be scrabbling around in the dirt, fighting for scraps and starving, regardless of who wins.”