“Whom are you talking about?” I asked. “Your mother—your sister?”
“Oh, no;” the tone was simplicity itself. “Never had no mother. I mean the lady at the big house; the one that was married. She gave me money to go out of Washington, and, wanting to be a soldier, I followed Curly Jim. I didn’t think he’d die—he looked so strong— What’s the matter, sir? Have I said anything I shouldn’t?”
I had him by the arm. I fear that I was shaking him.
“The lady!” I repeated. “She who was married—who gave you money. Wasn’t it Mrs. Jeffrey?”
“Yes, I believe that was the name of the man she married. I didn’t know him; but I saw her—”
“Where? And why did she give you money? I will take you home with me if you tell me the truth about it.”
He glanced back at the tent from which I had slightly drawn him and a hungry look crept into his eyes.
“Well, it’s no secret now,” he muttered. “He used to say I must keep my mouth shut; but he wouldn’t say so now if he knew I could get home by telling. He used to be sorry for me, he used. What do you want to know?”
“Why Mrs. Jeffrey gave you money to leave Washington.”
The boy trembled, drew a step away, and then came back, and under those hot Florida skies, in the turmoil of departing troops, I heard these words: