About noon came tidings of my missing boy.He had been seen on the road，tramping westward，some eight miles out，at six in the morning.I started a cavalry lieutenant and a private on his track at once.They came in sight of him twenty miles out.He had climbed a fence and was wearily dragging himself across a slushy field toward a large old-fashioned mansion in the edge of a village.They rode through a bit of woods，made a detour，and closed upon the house from the opposite side；then dismounted and skurried into the kitchen.Nobody there.They slipped into the next room，which was also unoccupied；the door from that room into the front or sitting room was open.They were about to step through it when they heard a low voice；it was somebody praying.So they halted reverently，and the lieutenant put his head in and saw an old man and an old woman kneeling in a corner of that sitting-room.It was the old man that was praying，and just as he was finishing his prayer，the Wicklow boy opened the front door and stepped in.Both of those old people sprang at him and smothered him with embraces，shouting：
“Our boy!Our darling!God be praised.The lost is found!He that was dead is alive again!”
Well，sir，what do you think？That young imp was born and reared on that homestead，and had never been five miles away from it in all his life till the fortnight before he loafed into my quarters and gulled me with that maudlin yarn of his!It's as true as gospel.That old man was his father—a learned old retired clergyman；and that old lady was his mother.
Let me throw in a word or two of explanation concerning that boy and his performances.It turned out that he was a ravenous devourer of dime novels and sensation-story papers—therefore，dark mysteries and gaudy heroisms were just in his line.Then he had read newspaper reports of the stealthy goings and comings of rebel spies in our midst，and of their lurid purposes and their two or three startling achievements，till his imagination was all aflame on that subject.His constant comrade for some months had been a Yankee youth of much tongue and lively fancy，who had served for a couple of years as “Mud clerk”(that is，subordinate purser)on certain of the packet-boats plying between New Orleans and points two or three hundred miles up the Mississippi—hence his easy facility in handling the names and other details pertaining to that region.Now I had spent two or three months in that part of the country before the war；and I knew just enough about it to be easily taken in by that boy，whereas a born Louisianian would probably have caught him tripping before he had talked fifteen minutes.Do you know the reason he said he would rather die than explain certain of his treasonable enigmas？Simply because he couldn't explain them!—they had no meaning；he had fired them out of his imagination without forethought or afterthought；and so，upon sudden call，he wasn't able to invent an explanation of them.For instance，he couldn't reveal what was hidden in the “sympathetic ink”letter，for the ample reason that there wasn't anything hidden in it；it was blank paper only.He hadn't put anything into a gun，and had never intended to—for his letters were all written to imaginary persons，and when he hid one in the stable he always removed the one he had put there the day before；so he was not acquainted with that knotted string，since he was seeing it for the first time when I showed it to him；but as soon as I had let him find out where it came from，he straightway adopted it，in his romantic fashion，and got some fine effects out of it.He invented Mr.“Gaylord”；there wasn't any 15Bond Street，just then—it had been pulled down three months before.He invented the “Colonel”；he invented the glib histories of those unfortunates whom I captured and confronted him with；he invented “B.B.”；he even invented No.166，one may say，for he didn't know there was such a number in the Eagle Hotel until we went there.He stood ready to invent anybody or anything whenever it was wanted.If I called for “outside”spies，he promptly described strangers whom he had seen at the hotel，and whose names he had happened to hear.Ah，he lived in a gorgeous，mysterious，romantic world during those few stirring days，and I think it was real to him，and that he enjoyed it clear down to the bottom of his heart.
But he made trouble enough for us，and just no end of humiliation.You see，on account of him we had fifteen or twenty people under arrest and confinement in the fort，with sentinels before their doors.A lot of the captives were soldiers and such，and to them I didn't have to apologize；but the rest were first-class citizens，from all over the country，and no amount of apologies was sufficient to satisfy them.They just fumed and raged and made no end of trouble!And those two ladies—one was an Ohio Congressman's wife，the other a Western bishop's sister—well，the scorn and ridicule and angry tears they poured out on me made up a keepsake that was likely to make me remember them for a considerable time—and I shall.That old lame gentleman with the goggles was a college president from Philadelphia，who had come up to attend his nephew's funeral.He had never seen young Wicklow before，of course.Well，he not only missed the funeral，and got jailed as a rebel spy，but Wicklow had stood up there in my quarters and coldly described him as a counterfeiter，nigger-trader，horse-thief，and firebug from the most notorious rascal-nest in Galveston；and this was a thing which that poor old gentleman couldn't seem to get over at all.
And the War Department!But，oh,my soul，let's draw the curtain over that part!
1881
