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.15Bond Street，New York，passing under the name of R.F.Gaylord.I telegraphed name and deion 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 infernalist 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 catechizing 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 tied 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.
