“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,—