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THE LOST DISPATCH.

GALESBURG, ILL.:

GALESBURG PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY.

1889.


COPYRIGHTED 1889,

BY GALESBURG PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY.

All rights reserved.




PREFACE.


In adding this account of the finding of the "Lost Dispatch" to the war
literature of our country, I do so without further preamble or preface
than to say that all persons connected with this narrative appear on the
following pages under strictly fictitious names.

For purely personal reasons, reasons that seem to me right and proper, I
still desire to remain unknown. There are not more than twenty-five
persons now living, who, on reading this account, will be able to
recognize the writer. These I place on their honor not to reveal their
knowledge.

THE AUTHOR.




THE LOST DISPATCH.

_AN INCIDENT OF THE LATE WAR._




CHAPTER I.


The Union army lay impatiently waiting until the plans of the leader of
the Rebel troops could be fathomed. His designs were shrouded in so much
mystery that the anxious watchers could not determine whether the
invasion of Maryland was only a feint to draw off the Union troops from
the points they were protecting, or whether he really aimed to attack
the Northern cities.

It seemed absolutely impossible to obtain authentic information. The
stories brought in by the stragglers and prisoners were wild and
improbable in the extreme. To have believed them would have been to have
believed that the enemy had the power of marching in a dozen different
directions at one and the same time, for each story gave the enemy a
different starting point, and a different aim and purpose to their
movements.

Of the scouts who had been sent out to all points, many had been taken
prisoner, or had met a speedy death. In spite of their untiring and
daring efforts to obtain reliable information, the reports brought back
by the few who did return were so unsatisfactory and contradictory that
no dependence could be placed in them, for seemingly none of the
soldiers and few, if any, of the officers of the invading army knew
where they were going or for what.

At the headquarters of General Foster, which that first week of
September, '62, were located in an open meadow, half a dozen officers
were gathered in a low-voiced consultation. Their faces were grave and
marked with lines of anxious thought, as they poured over maps and
compared conflicting dispatches. A young officer, Captain Guilfoyle, who
sat writing at a table made up of rough boards, joined in the
conversation only when questioned by his superior officers, regarding
some point in the topography of the country, which could not be
determined from the imperfect maps they studied.

An hour later all excepting the young officer had left the tent.
Stopping only to light a candle as it grew too dark to see, he wrote
steadily on until his work was finished and the papers lay folded on the
table. He arranged them ready for inspection, then rose and walked back
and forth across the narrow limits of the tent to stretch his tired
muscles. At last, with an impatient sigh, he seated himself again and
after waiting a moment drew from his pocket a long narrow book. It fell
apart, as if accustomed to being opened at one particular page, and the
light from the candle shone over a thick, long curl of fair hair, which
might have been cut from the head bending over it, so exactly the same
was the color. At the sound of approaching footsteps and voices outside
the tent he hastily returned the book to his pocket.

Some one was asking for General Foster. The next moment a man dressed
like a teamster entered. His clothes were ragged and dirty. One arm was
wrapped around with a piece of blood stained cloth and hung limp and
useless at his side. His face was pale under the wide brim of his torn
hat, and the blood had trickled down one side from a fresh wound in his
forehead, making a wide mark along his cheek. The man showed his utter
exhaustion in every movement, and staggered from side to side as he went
across the tent and dropped half fainting onto a stool.

Captain Guilfoyle took a flask from off the bed and held it to the
man's lips, eyeing him closely, until recovering somewhat, he
straightened up and removed the hat which partly shaded his face. As he
did so the Captain recognized him as one of the scouts whose return they
were anxiously hoping would bring them the sorely needed intelligence
and whose report General Foster had ordered him to receive if he got in
during his absence.

"Yes, I'm here at last," replied the man to Captain Guilfoyle's hurried
interrogation, "and I've nothing to report but a total lack of success."

"I left poor Dedrick and Allison over there, and barely succeeded in
getting back myself. You know what they were,--the best scouts in the
whole army. We did all men could do, but luck was against us. We have
learned nothing except that the enemy are across the Potomac, something
any straggler can tell. I have been four days getting back," said the
new comer, going on to give a full account of what he and his
companions had tried to do. "I tell you," he added wearily, "I doubt if
any one can find out what they mean to do until they do it, for I don't
believe they know themselves. They are----." There the low voice stopped
abruptly and the speaker's head sank until it touched the table.

Calling in an orderly waiting outside, the officer applied restoratives,
and as soon as consciousness returned the sufferer was helped away to a
place where his wounds could receive much-needed attention.

Captain Guilfoyle returned to his seat by the table to await General
Foster's return. After noting down some items in a well worn dispatch
book, he leaned his head on his hand and gave himself to deep and
serious thought, until, finally, a look of grim determination settled on
his smooth, boyish face.

When the General returned, Captain Guilfoyle rose to report his work
finished. "McClandish has come in without any news of importance; the
two scouts with