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.