The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  “I? I do not write much, sir.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, sir. Oh, if you mean scribbling, I do scribble some, for amusement.”

  “What do you do with your scribblings?”

  “Nothing, sir—throw them away.”

  “Never send them to anybody?”

  “No, sir.”

  I suddenly thrust before him the letter to the “Colonel.” He started slightly, but immediately composed himself. A slight tinge spread itself over his cheek.

  “How came you to send this piece of scribbling, then?”

  “I nev—never meant any harm, sir.”

  “Never meant any harm! You betray the armament and condition of the post, and mean no harm by it?”

  He hung his head and was silent.

  “Come, speak up, and stop lying. Whom was this letter intended for?”

  He showed signs of distress, now; but quickly collected himself, and replied, in a tone of deep earnestness—

  “I will tell you the truth, sir—the whole truth. The letter was never intended for anybody at all. I wrote it only to amuse myself. I see the error and foolishness of it, now—but it is the only offence, sir, upon my honor.”

  “Ah, I am glad of that. It is dangerous to be writing such letters. I hope you are sure this is the only one you wrote?”

  “Yes, sir, perfectly sure.”

  His hardihood was stupefying. He told that lie with as sincere a countenance as any creature ever wore. I waited a moment to soothe down my rising temper, and then said—

  “Wicklow, jog your memory now, and see if you can help me with two or three little matters which I wish to inquire about.”

  “I will do my very best, sir.”

  “Then, to begin with—who is ‘the Master’?”

  It betrayed him into darting a startled glance at our faces, but that was all. He was serene again in a moment, and tranquilly answered—

  “I do not know, sir.”

  “You do not know?”

  “I do not know.”

  “You are sure you do not know?”

  He tried hard to keep his eyes on mine, but the strain was too great; his chin sunk slowly toward his breast and he was silent; he stood there nervously fumbling with a button, an object to command one’s pity, in spite of his base acts. Presently I broke the stillness with the question—

  “Who are the ‘Holy Alliance’?”

  His body shook visibly, and he made a slight random gesture with his hands, which to me was like the appeal of a despairing creature for compassion. But he made no sound. He continued to stand with his face bent toward the ground. As we sat gazing at him, waiting for him to speak, we saw the big tears begin to roll down his cheeks. But he remained silent. After a little, I said—

  “You must answer me, my boy, and you must tell me the truth. Who are the Holy Alliance?”

  He wept on in silence. Presently I said, somewhat sharply,

  “Answer the question!”

  He struggled to get command of his voice; and then, looking up appealingly, forced the words out between his sobs—

  “Oh, have pity on me, sir! I cannot answer it, for I do not know.”

  “What!”

  “Indeed, sir, I am telling the truth. I never have heard of the Holy Alliance till this moment. On my honor, sir, this is so.”

  “Good heavens! Look at this second letter of yours; there, do you see those words, ‘Holy Alliance’? What do you say now?”

  He gazed up into my face with the hurt look of one upon whom a great wrong had been wrought, then said, feelingly—

  “This is some cruel joke, sir; and how could they play it upon me, who have tried all I could to do right, and have never done harm to anybody? Some one has counterfeited my hand; I never wrote a line of this; I have never seen this letter before!”

  “Oh, you unspeakable liar! Here, what do you say to this?”—and I snatched the sympathetic-ink letter from my pocket and thrust it before his eyes.

  His face turned white!—as white as a dead person’s. He wavered slightly in his tracks, and put his hand against the wall to steady himself. After a moment he asked, in so faint a voice that it was hardly audible—

  “Have you—read it?”

  Our faces must have answered the truth before my lips could get out a false “yes,” for I distinctly saw the courage come back into that boy’s eyes. I waited for him to say something, but he kept silent. So at last I said—

  “Well, what have you to say as to the revelations in this letter?”

  He answered, with perfect composure—

  “Nothing, except that they are entirely harmless and innocent; they can hurt nobody.”

  I was in something of a corner now, as I couldn’t disprove his assertion. I did not know exactly how to proceed. However, an idea came to my relief, and I said—

  “You are sure you know nothing about the Master and the Holy Alliance, and did not write the letter which you say is a forgery?”

  “Yes, sir—sure.”

  I slowly drew out the knotted twine string and held it up without speaking. He gazed at it indifferently, then looked at me inquiringly. My patience was sorely taxed. However, I kept my temper down, and said in my usual voice—

  “Wicklow, do you see this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  “It seems to be a piece of string.”

  “Seems? It is a piece of string. Do you recognize it?”

  “No, sir,” he replied, as calmly as the words could be uttered.

  His coolness was perfectly wonderful! I paused now for several seconds, in order that the silence might add impressiveness to what I was about to say; then I rose and laid my hand on his shoulder, and said gravely—

  “It will do you no good, poor boy, none in the world. This sign to the ‘Master,’ this knotted string, found in one of the guns on the water-front—”

  “Found in the gun! Oh, no, no, no! do not say in the gun, but in a crack in the tompion!—it must have been in the crack!” and down he went on his knees and clasped his hands and lifted up a face that was pitiful to see, so ashy it was, and wild with terror.

  “No, it was in the gun.”

  “Oh, something has gone wrong! My God, I am lost!” and he sprang up and darted this way and that, dodging the hands that were put out to catch him, and doing his best to escape from the place. But of course escape was impossible. Then he flung himself on his knees again, crying with all his might, and clasped me around the legs; and so he clung to me and begged and pleaded, saying, “Oh, have pity on me! Oh, be merciful to me! Do not betray me; they would not spare my life a moment! Protect me, save me. I will confess everything!”

  It took us some time to quiet him down and modify his fright, and get him into something like a rational frame of mind. Then I began to question him, he answering humbly, with downcast eyes, and from time to time swabbing away his constantly flowing tears.

  “So you are at heart a rebel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And a spy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And have been acting under distinct orders from outside?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Willingly?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Gladly, perhaps?”

  “Yes, sir; it would do no good to deny it. The South is my country; my heart is Southern, and it is all in her cause.”

  “Then the tale you told me of your wrongs and the persecution of your family was made up for the occasion?”

  “They—they told me to say it, sir.”

  “And you would betray and destroy those who pitied and sheltered you. Do you comprehend how base you are, you poor misguided thing?”

  He replied with
sobs only.

  “Well, let that pass. To business. Who is the ‘Colonel,’ and where is he?”

  He began to cry hard, and tried to beg off from answering. He said he would be killed if he told. I threatened to put him in the dark cell and lock him up if he did not come out with the information. At the same time I promised to protect him from all harm if he made a clean breast. For all answer, he closed his mouth firmly and put on a stubborn air which I could not bring him out of. At last I started with him; but a single glance into the dark cell converted him. He broke into a passion of weeping and supplicating, and declared he would tell everything.

  So I brought him back, and he named the “Colonel,” and described him particularly. Said he would be found at the principal hotel in the town, in citizen’s dress. I had to threaten him again, before he would describe and name the “Master.” Said the Master would be found at No. 15 Bond Street, New York, passing under the name of R. F. Gaylord. I telegraphed name and description to the chief of police of the metropolis, and asked that Gaylord be arrested and held till I could send for him.

  “Now,” said I, “it seems that there are several of the conspirators ‘outside,’ presumably in New London. Name and describe them.”

  He named and described three men and two women—all stopping at the principal hotel. I sent out quietly, and had them and the “Colonel” arrested and confined in the fort.

  “Next, I want to know all about your three fellow-conspirators who are here in the fort.”

  He was about to dodge me with a falsehood, I thought; but I produced the mysterious bits of paper which had been found upon two of them, and this had a salutary effect upon him. I said we had possession of two of the men, and he must point out the third. This frightened him badly, and he cried out—

  “Oh, please don’t make me; he would kill me on the spot!”

  I said that that was all nonsense; I would have somebody near by to protect him, and, besides, the men should be assembled without arms. I ordered all the raw recruits to be mustered, and then the poor trembling little wretch went out and stepped along down the line, trying to look as indifferent as possible. Finally he spoke a single word to one of the men, and before he had gone five steps the man was under arrest.

  As soon as Wicklow was with us again, I had those three men brought in. I made one of them stand forward, and said—

  “Now, Wicklow, mind, not a shade’s divergence from the exact truth. Who is this man, and what do you know about him?”

  Being “in for it,” he cast consequences aside, fastened his eyes on the man’s face, and spoke straight along without hesitation—to the following effect.

  “His real name is George Bristow. He is from New Orleans; was second mate of the coast-packet Capitol, two years ago; is a desperate character, and has served two terms for manslaughter—one for killing a deck-hand named Hyde with a capstan-bar, and one for killing a roustabout for refusing to heave the lead, which is no part of a roustabout’s business. He is a spy, and was sent here by the Colonel, to act in that capacity. He was third mate of the St. Nicholas, when she blew up in the neighborhood of Memphis, in ’58, and came near being lynched for robbing the dead and wounded while they were being taken ashore in an empty wood-boat.”

  And so forth and so on—he gave the man’s biography in full. When he had finished, I said to the man—

  “What have you to say to this?”

  “Barring your presence, sir, it is the infernalest lie that ever was spoke!”

  I sent him back into confinement, and called the others forward in turn. Same result. The boy gave a detailed history of each, without ever hesitating for a word or a fact; but all I could get out of either rascal was the indignant assertion that it was all a lie. They would confess nothing. I returned them to captivity, and brought out the rest of my prisoners, one by one. Wicklow told all about them—what towns in the South they were from, and every detail of their connection with the conspiracy.

  But they all denied his facts, and not one of them confessed a thing. The men raged, the women cried. According to their stories, they were all innocent people from out West, and loved the Union above all things in this world. I locked the gang up, in disgust, and fell to catechising Wicklow once more.

  “Where is No. 166, and who is B. B.?”

  But there he was determined to draw the line. Neither coaxing nor threats had any effect upon him. Time was flying—it was necessary to institute sharp measures. So I tied him up a-tiptoe by the thumbs. As the pain increased, it wrung screams from him which were almost more than I could bear. But I held my ground, and pretty soon he shrieked out—

  “Oh, please let me down, and I will tell!”

  “No—you’ll tell before I let you down.”

  Every instant was agony to him, now, so out it came—

  “No. 166, Eagle Hotel!”—naming a wretched tavern down by the water, a resort of common laborers, longshoremen, and less reputable folk.

  So I released him, and then demanded to know the object of the conspiracy.

  “To take the fort to-night,” said he, doggedly and sobbing.

  “Have I got all the chiefs of the conspiracy?”

  “No. You’ve got all except those that are to meet at 166.”

  “What does ‘Remember XXXX’ mean?”

  No reply.

  “What is the password to No. 166?”

  No reply.

  “What do those bunches of letters mean—‘FFFFF’ and ‘MMMM’? Answer! or you will catch it again.”

  “I never will answer! I will die first. Now do what you please.”

  “Think what you are saying, Wicklow. Is it final?”

  He answered steadily, and without a quiver in his voice—

  “It is final. As sure as I love my wronged country and hate everything this Northern sun shines on, I will die before I will reveal those things.”

  I triced him up by the thumbs again. When the agony was full upon him, it was heartbreaking to hear the poor thing’s shrieks, but we got nothing else out of him. To every question he screamed the same reply: “I can die, and I will die; but I will never tell.”

  Well, we had to give it up. We were convinced that he certainly would die rather than confess. So we took him down and imprisoned him, under strict guard.

  Then for some hours we busied ourselves with sending telegrams to the War Department, and with making preparations for a descent upon No. 166.

  It was stirring times, that black and bitter night. Things had leaked out, and the whole garrison was on the alert. The sentinels were trebled, and nobody could move, outside or in, without being brought to a stand with a musket levelled at his head. However, Webb and I were less concerned now than we had previously been, because of the fact that the conspiracy must necessarily be in a pretty crippled condition, since so many of its principals were in our clutches.

  I determined to be at No. 166 in good season, capture and gag B. B., and be on hand for the rest when they arrived. At about a quarter past one in the morning I crept out of the fortress with half a dozen stalwart and gamy U.S. regulars at my heels—and the boy Wicklow, with his hands tied behind him. I told him we were going to No. 166, and that if I found he had lied again and was misleading us, he would have to show us the right place or suffer the consequences.

  We approached the tavern stealthily and reconnoitred. A light was burning in the small bar-room, the rest of the house was dark. I tried the front door; it yielded, and we softly entered, closing the door behind us. Then we removed our shoes, and I led the way to the bar-room. The German landlord sat there, asleep in his chair. I woke him gently, and told him to take off his boots and precede us; warning him at the same time to utter no sound. He obeyed without a murmur, but evidently he was badly frightened. I ordered him to lead the way to 166. We ascended two or three flights of stairs as softly a
s a file of cats; and then, having arrived near the farther end of a long hall, we came to a door through the glazed transom of which we could discern the glow of a dim light from within. The landlord felt for me in the dark and whispered to me that that was 166. I tried the door—it was locked on the inside. I whispered an order to one of my biggest soldiers; we set our ample shoulders to the door and with one heave we burst it from its hinges. I caught a half-glimpse of a figure in a bed—saw its head dart toward the candle; out went the light, and we were in pitch darkness. With one big bound I lit on that bed and pinned its occupant down with my knees. My prisoner struggled fiercely, but I got a grip on his throat with my left hand, and that was a good assistance to my knees in holding him down. Then straightway I snatched out my revolver, cocked it, and laid the cold barrel warningly against his cheek.

  “Now somebody strike a light!” said I. “I’ve got him safe.”

  It was done. The flame of the match burst up. I looked at my captive, and, by George, it was a young woman!

  I let go and got off the bed, feeling pretty sheepish. Everybody stared stupidly at his neighbor. Nobody had any wit or sense left, so sudden and overwhelming had been the surprise. The young woman began to cry, and covered her face with the sheet. The landlord said, meekly—

  “My daughter, she has been doing something that is not right, nicht wahr?”

  “Your daughter? Is she your daughter?”

  “Oh, yes, she is my daughter. She is just to-night come home from Cincinnati a little bit sick.”

  “Confound it, that boy has lied again. This is not the right 166; this is not B. B. Now, Wicklow, you will find the correct 166 for us, or—hello! where is that boy?”

  Gone, as sure as guns! And, what is more, we failed to find a trace of him. Here was an awkward predicament. I cursed my stupidity in not tying him to one of the men; but it was of no use to bother about that now. What should I do in the present circumstances?—that was the question. That girl might be B. B., after all. I did not believe it, but still it would not answer to take unbelief for proof. So I finally put my men in a vacant room across the hall from 166, and told them to capture anybody and everybody that approached the girl’s room, and to keep the landlord with them, and under strict watch, until further orders. Then I hurried back to the fort to see if all was right there yet.