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THE LOST DESPATCH
BY
NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN
AUTHOR OF "THE TREVOR CASE"
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1913
Copyright, 1913, by
D. 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 sighed
dismally through the Maryland woods. The moon, temporarily obscured by
heavy clouds, gave some light now and then, which but served to make
the succeeding darkness more intense. Suddenly the silence was broken
by the clatter of galloping hoofs, and two riders, leaving the highway,
rode into the woods on their left. The shorter of the two men muttered
an oath as his horse stumbled over the uneven ground.
"Take care, Symonds," said his companion quickly, and he ducked his
head to avoid the bare branches of a huge tree. "How near are we now to
Poolesville?"
"About seven miles by the road," was the gruff reply; "but this short
cut will soon bring us there. And none too soon," he added, glancing at
their weary horses. "Still, Captain Lloyd, we have done a good night's
work."
"I think Colonel Baker will be satisfied," agreed Lloyd.
"And friend Schmidt, now that he sees the game is up, will probably
turn state's evidence."
Lloyd shook his head. "I doubt if Schmidt can tell us much. He is too
leaky a vessel for a clever spy to trust with valuable information."
"But," objected Symonds, "that is a very important paper you found in
his possession to-night."
"True; but that paper does not furnish us with any clue as to the
identity of the spy in Washington. Schmidt is simply a go-between like
many other sutlers. Probably that paper passed through three or four
hands before it was given to him to carry between the lines."
"Well, there is one thing certain; Baker will make Schmidt talk if any
man can," declared Symonds. "May I ask, Captain, why we are headed for
Poolesville?"
"Because I am looking for the man higher up. I expect to get some trace
of the spy's identity in or around Poolesville."
"You may," acknowledged the Secret Service agent doubtfully; "and again
you may not. Poolesville used to be called the 'rebs' post-office,' and
they do say that word of every contemplated movement of McClellan's
army was sent through that village to Leesburg by the 'grape-vine
telegraph.'"
"Yes, I know," was the brief reply. The two men spoke in lowered tones
as they made what speed they could among the trees. "By the way,
Symonds, has it ever been discovered who it was delayed the despatch
from Burnside, asking for the pontoon bridges?"
"No, never a trace, worse luck; but do you know," drawing his horse
closer to his companion, "I think that and the Allen disaster were
accomplished by one and the same person."
"Those two and a good many others we haven't yet heard of," agreed
Lloyd. "In fact, it was to trace this particular unknown that I was
recalled from service at the front by Pinkerton, and detailed to join
the branch of the Secret Service under Colonel Baker."
"We have either arrested or frightened away most of the informers
inside the city," volunteered Symonds, after a brief silence. "Besides
which, Washington is too well guarded nowadays--two years ago was a
different matter. Now, the general commanding the Maryland border
patrols declares that a pigeon cannot fly across the Potomac without
getting shot."
Lloyd's answer was lost as Symonds' horse stumbled again, recovered
himself, and after a few halting steps went dead lame. In a second
Symonds had dismounted, and, drawing off his glove, felt the animal's
leg.
"Strained a tendon," he growled, blowing on his numb fingers to warm
them. "I'll have to lead him to the road; it is over there," pointing
to a slight dip in the ground. "You go ahead, sir; it's lucky I know
the country."
As the two men reached the edge of the wood and stood debating a
moment, they were disturbed by the distant sound of hoof beats.
"Get over on that side of the road," whispered Lloyd, "and keep out of
sight behind that tree; leave your horse here."
Symonds did as he was told none too soon. Around the bend of the road
came 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 by
Symonds, who had stepped from behind the tree, revolver in hand. An
easy 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 would
not 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," as
the rider approached him, "where did you come from, and where are you
going?"
"From Harper's Ferry, bearing despatches to Adjutant-General Thomas in
Washington 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 cut
across here, hoping to strike the turnpike. It's freezing on the
tow-path." As he spoke the trooper pulled the collar of his heavy blue
overcoat up about his ears until it nearly met his cavalry hat.
The clouds were drifting away from before the moon, and a ray of light
illuminated the scene. Lloyd inspected the trooper suspiciously; his
story sounded all right, but ...
"Your regiment?" he asked.
"The First Maryland Potomac Home Brigade, Colonel Henry A. Cole. I am
attached 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 us
whether you want to or not. Seems to me, young man," glancing closely
at the latter's mount, "your horse is mighty fresh, considering you
have ridden such a distance."
"We in the cavalry know how to keep our horses in good condition, as
well as ride them." The trooper pointed derisively at Symonds' sorry
nag standing with drooping head by the roadside.
"None of your lip," growled Symonds angrily; his poor riding was a sore
subject. Further discussion was cut short by Lloyd's peremptory order:
"Come; I am waiting; give me the despatch," and, as the trooper still
hesitated, "we are agents of the United States Secret Service."
"In that case, sir." The trooper's right hand went to the salute; then
he unbuttoned his coat, and fumbled in his belt. "Here it is, sir."
As Lloyd bent forward to take the expected paper, he received instead a
crashing blow on the temple from the butt end of a revolver, which sent
him reeling from the saddle. At the same time, Symonds, who had hold of
the trooper's bridle, was lifted off his feet by the sudden rearing of
the horse, and before he had collected his wits, he was dashed
violently to one side and thrown on the icy ground.
Symonds staggered to his feet, but at that instant the trooper, who was
some distance away, swerved suddenly toward the woods, and his broad
cavalry hat was jerked from his head by a low-hanging branch. His horse
then bolted into the middle of the road, and for a second the trooper's
figure was silhouetted against the sky in the brilliant moonlight. A
mass 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 the
galloping hoof beats growing fainter and fainter down the road in the
direction of Washington.