The Lost Despatch

  Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  THE LOST DESPATCH

  BY

  NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN

  AUTHOR OF "THE TREVOR CASE"

  ILLUSTRATED

  NEW YORK AND LONDOND. APPLETON AND COMPANY1913

  Copyright, 1913, byD. APPLETON AND COMPANY

  Printed in the United States of America

  TO A GALLANT SOLDIER OF THE UNION BRIGADIER-GENERAL SUMNER H. LINCOLN U.S. ARMY WHO FOUGHT IN TWO WARS UNDER THE FLAG THIS NOVEL OF 1865 IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

  "Love rules the court, the camp, the grove And men below, and saints above."

  SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter Page

  I. THE PIGEON'S FLIGHT 1

  II. BRAINS VS. BRAWN 8

  III. A KNOT OF RIBBON BLUE 19

  IV. BANQUO'S GHOST 30

  V. A SCRAP OF PAPER 46

  VI. THE SIGNAL LIGHT 51

  VII. THE MISCHANCES OF A NIGHT 57

  VIII. A VOICE FROM THE PAST 64

  IX. OUTWITTED 75

  X. THE FORTUNES OF WAR 87

  XI. WHO LAUGHS LAST 95

  XII. THE FIGHT AT THE FORD 112

  XIII. FOR THE CAUSE 120

  XIV. WHEN TRAGEDY GRINS 134

  XV. NEMESIS 144

  XVI. A TANGLED SKEIN 161

  XVII. IN CLOSE CONFINEMENT 168

  XVIII. WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE 176

  XIX. GROPING IN THE DARK 186

  XX. THE TURNING POINT 197

  XXI. THE TRIAL 210

  XXII. WEAVING THE WEB 229

  XXIII. SENSATIONAL EVIDENCE 245

  XXIV. A STARTLING DISCOVERY 257

  XXV. A THUNDERBOLT 268

  XXVI. BY A HAIR'S BREADTH 282

  XXVII. WITH MALICE TOWARD NONE 300

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  Facing Page

  "As Lloyd bent forward ... he received a crashing blow on the temple" _Frontispiece_

  "'You? Nancy!' The doctor gazed incredulously" 68

  "'I--I--am afraid he is dead'" 116

  "Another interruption stopped her ... A hesitating step crossed the threshold" 278

  THE LOST DESPATCH

  CHAPTER I

  THE PIGEON'S FLIGHT

  It was bitterly cold that December night, 1864, and the wind sigheddismally through the Maryland woods. The moon, temporarily obscured byheavy clouds, gave some light now and then, which but served to makethe succeeding darkness more intense. Suddenly the silence was brokenby the clatter of galloping hoofs, and two riders, leaving the highway,rode into the woods on their left. The shorter of the two men mutteredan oath as his horse stumbled over the uneven ground.

  "Take care, Symonds," said his companion quickly, and he ducked hishead to avoid the bare branches of a huge tree. "How near are we now toPoolesville?"

  "About seven miles by the road," was the gruff reply; "but this shortcut will soon bring us there. And none too soon," he added, glancing attheir weary horses. "Still, Captain Lloyd, we have done a good night'swork."

  "I think Colonel Baker will be satisfied," agreed Lloyd.

  "And friend Schmidt, now that he sees the game is up, will probablyturn state's evidence."

  Lloyd shook his head. "I doubt if Schmidt can tell us much. He is tooleaky a vessel for a clever spy to trust with valuable information."

  "But," objected Symonds, "that is a very important paper you found inhis possession to-night."

  "True; but that paper does not furnish us with any clue as to theidentity of the spy in Washington. Schmidt is simply a go-between likemany other sutlers. Probably that paper passed through three or fourhands before it was given to him to carry between the lines."

  "Well, there is one thing certain; Baker will make Schmidt talk if anyman can," declared Symonds. "May I ask, Captain, why we are headed forPoolesville?"

  "Because I am looking for the man higher up. I expect to get some traceof the spy's identity in or around Poolesville."

  "You may," acknowledged the Secret Service agent doubtfully; "and againyou may not. Poolesville used to be called the 'rebs' post-office,' andthey do say that word of every contemplated movement of McClellan'sarmy was sent through that village to Leesburg by the 'grape-vinetelegraph.'"

  "Yes, I know," was the brief reply. The two men spoke in lowered tonesas they made what speed they could among the trees. "By the way,Symonds, has it ever been discovered who it was delayed the despatchfrom Burnside, asking for the pontoon bridges?"

  "No, never a trace, worse luck; but do you know," drawing his horsecloser to his companion, "I think that and the Allen disaster wereaccomplished by one and the same person."

  "Those two and a good many others we haven't yet heard of," agreedLloyd. "In fact, it was to trace this particular unknown that I wasrecalled from service at the front by Pinkerton, and detailed to jointhe branch of the Secret Service under Colonel Baker."

  "We have either arrested or frightened away most of the informersinside the city," volunteered Symonds, after a brief silence. "Besideswhich, Washington is too well guarded nowadays--two years ago was adifferent matter. Now, the general commanding the Maryland borderpatrols declares that a pigeon cannot fly across the Potomac withoutgetting shot."

  Lloyd's answer was lost as Symonds' horse stumbled again, recoveredhimself, and after a few halting steps went dead lame. In a secondSymonds had dismounted, and, drawing off his glove, felt the animal'sleg.

  "Strained a tendon," he growled, blowing on his numb fingers to warmthem. "I'll have to lead him to the road; it is over there," pointingto a slight dip in the ground. "You go ahead, sir; it's lucky I knowthe country."

  As the two men reached the edge of the wood and stood debating amoment, they were disturbed by the distant sound of hoof beats.

  "Get over on that side of the road," whispered Lloyd, "and keep out ofsight behind that tree; leave your horse here."

  Symonds did as he was told none too soon. Around the bend of the roadcame a horseman. Quickly Lloyd's challenge rang out:

  "Halt, or I fire!"

  As he spoke, Lloyd swung his horse across the narrow road.

  Swerving instinctively to the right, the newcomer was confronted bySymonds, who had stepped from behind the tree, revolver in hand. Aneasy target for both sides, the rider had no choice in the matter.Checking his frightened horse, he called:

  "Are you Yanks or rebels?"

  Symonds lowered his revolver. He knew that a Confederate picket wouldnot be
apt to use the word "rebels."

  "We are Yanks," he answered, "and you?"

  "A friend."

  "Advance, friend," ordered Lloyd, "but put your right hand up. Now," asthe rider approached him, "where did you come from, and where are yougoing?"

  "From Harper's Ferry, bearing despatches to Adjutant-General Thomas inWashington from General John Stevenson, commanding this district."

  "How did you come to take this cut?" demanded Symonds.

  "I rode down the tow path until I reached Edward's Ferry, then cutacross here, hoping to strike the turnpike. It's freezing on thetow-path." As he spoke the trooper pulled the collar of his heavy blueovercoat up about his ears until it nearly met his cavalry hat.

  The clouds were drifting away from before the moon, and a ray of lightilluminated the scene. Lloyd inspected the trooper suspiciously; hisstory sounded all right, but ...

  "Your regiment?" he asked.

  "The First Maryland Potomac Home Brigade, Colonel Henry A. Cole. I amattached to headquarters as special messenger."

  "Let me see your despatch."

  "Hold on," retorted the trooper. "First, tell me who you are."

  "That's cool," broke in Symonds. "I guess you will show it to uswhether you want to or not. Seems to me, young man," glancing closelyat the latter's mount, "your horse is mighty fresh, considering youhave ridden such a distance."

  "We in the cavalry know how to keep our horses in good condition, aswell as ride them." The trooper pointed derisively at Symonds' sorrynag standing with drooping head by the roadside.

  "None of your lip," growled Symonds angrily; his poor riding was a soresubject. Further discussion was cut short by Lloyd's peremptory order:

  "Come; I am waiting; give me the despatch," and, as the trooper stillhesitated, "we are agents of the United States Secret Service."

  "In that case, sir." The trooper's right hand went to the salute; thenhe unbuttoned his coat, and fumbled in his belt. "Here it is, sir."

  As Lloyd bent forward to take the expected paper, he received instead acrashing blow on the temple from the butt end of a revolver, which senthim reeling from the saddle. At the same time, Symonds, who had hold ofthe trooper's bridle, was lifted off his feet by the sudden rearing ofthe horse, and before he had collected his wits, he was dashedviolently to one side and thrown on the icy ground.

  Symonds staggered to his feet, but at that instant the trooper, who wassome distance away, swerved suddenly toward the woods, and his broadcavalry hat was jerked from his head by a low-hanging branch. His horsethen bolted into the middle of the road, and for a second the trooper'sfigure was silhouetted against the sky in the brilliant moonlight. Amass of heavy hair had fallen down the rider's back.

  "By God! It's a woman!" gasped Symonds, as he clutched his revolver.

  A shot rang out, followed by a stifled cry; then silence, save for thegalloping hoof beats growing fainter and fainter down the road in thedirection of Washington.