The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain (25 page)

I said there was no question but that things were beginning to wear a most serious aspect. Said I:

“A desperate enterprise is on foot, that is plain enough. To-night is the time set for it—that, also, is plain. The exact nature of the enterprise—I mean the manner of it—is hidden away under those blind bunches of M’s and F’s, but the end and aim, I judge, is the surprise and capture of the post. We must move quick and sharp now. I think nothing can be gained by continuing our clandestine policy as regards Wicklow. We
must
know, and as soon as possible, too, where ‘166’ is located, so that we can make a descent upon the gang there at 2
A
.
M
. and doubtless the quickest way to get that information will be to force it out of that boy. But first of all, and before we make any important move, I must lay the facts before the War Department, and ask for plenary powers.”

The despatch was prepared in cipher to go over the wires; I read it, approved it, and sent it along.

We presently finished discussing the letter which was under consideration, and then opened the one which had been snatched from the lame gentleman. It contained nothing but a couple of perfectly blank sheets of note-paper! It was a chilly check to our hot eagerness and expectancy. We felt as blank as the paper, for a moment, and twice as foolish. But it was for a moment only; for, of course, we immediately afterward thought of “sympathetic ink.” We held the paper close to the fire and watched for the characters to come out, under the influence of the heat; but nothing appeared but some faint tracings, which we could make nothing of. We then called in the surgeon, and sent him off with orders to apply every test he was acquainted with till he got the right one, and report the contents of the letter to me the instant he brought them to the surface. This check was a confounded annoyance, and we naturally chafed under the delay; for we had fully expected to get out of that letter some of the most important secrets of the plot.

Now appeared Sergeant Rayburn, and drew from his pocket a piece of twine string about a foot long, with three knots tied in it, and held it up.

“I got it out of a gun on the water-front,” said he. “I took the tompions out of all the guns and examined close; this string was the only thing that was in any gun.”

So this bit of string was Wicklow’s “sign” to signify that the “Master’s” commands had not miscarried. I ordered that every sentinel who had served near that gun during the past twenty-four hours be put in confinement at once and separately, and not allowed to communicate with any one without my privity and consent.

A telegram now came from the Secretary of War. It read as follows:

Suspend habeas corpus. put town under martial law. Make necessary arrests. Act with vigor and promptness. Keep the department informed.

We were now in shape to go to work. I sent out and had the lame gentleman quietly arrested and as quietly brought into the fort; I placed him under guard, and forbade speech to him or from him. He was inclined to bluster at first, but he soon dropped that.

Next came word that Wicklow had been seen to give something to a couple of our new recruits; and that, as soon as his back was turned, these had been seized and confined. Upon each was found a small bit of paper, bearing these words and signs in pencil:

In accordance with instructions, I telegraphed to the Department, in cipher, the progress made, and also described the above ticket. We seemed to be in a strong enough position now to venture to throw off the mask as regarded Wicklow; so I sent for him. I also sent for and received back the letter written in sympathetic ink, the surgeon accompanying it with the information that thus far it had resisted his tests, but that there were others he could apply when I should be ready for him to do so.

Presently Wicklow entered. He had a somewhat worn and anxious look, but he was composed and easy, and if he suspected anything it did not appear in his face or manner. I allowed him to stand there a moment or two; then I said, pleasantly:

“My boy, why do you go to that old stable so much?”

He answered, with simple demeanor and without embarrassment:

“Well, I hardly know, sir; there isn’t any particular reason, except that I like to be alone, and I amuse myself there.”

“You amuse yourself there, do you?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, as innocently and simply as before.

“Is that all you do there?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, looking up with childlike wonderment in his big, soft eyes.

“You are
sure?
”

“Yes, sir, sure.”

After a pause I said:

“Wicklow, why do you write so much?”

“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 offense, 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 waterfront—”

“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.