War plays singular chances.  Halleck in St. Louis, secure in his plan of campaign, had sent an order after Dick left Shiloh, for Buell to turn to the north, leaving Grant to himself, and occupy a town that he named.  Through some chance the order never reached Buell.  Had it done so the whole course of American history might have been changed.  Grant himself, after the departure of the earlier messengers, changed his mind and sent messengers to Nelson, who led Buell’s vanguard, telling him not to hurry.  This army was to come to Pittsburg Landing or Shiloh partly by the Tennessee, and Grant stated that the vessels for him would not be ready until some days later.  It was the early stage of the war when generals behaved with great independence, and Nelson, a rough, stubborn man, after reading the order marched on faster than ever.  It seemed afterward that the very stars were for Grant, when one order was lost, and another disobeyed.

But Dick was not to know of these things until later.  He delivered in person his dispatch to General Buell, who remembered him and gave him a friendly nod, but who was as chary of speech as ever.  He wrote a brief reply to the dispatch and gave it sealed to Dick.

“The letter I hand you,” he said, “merely notifies General Grant that I have received his orders and will hurry forward as much as possible.  If on your return journey you should deem yourself in danger of falling into the hands of the enemy destroy it at once.”

Dick promised to do so, saluted, and retired.  He spent only two hours in General Buell’s camp, securing some fresh provisions to carry in his saddle bags and allowing his horse a little rest.  Then he mounted and took as straight a course as he could for General Grant’s camp at Pittsburg Landing.

The boy felt satisfied with himself.  He had done his mission quickly and exactly, and he would have a pleasant ride back.  On his strong, swift horse, and with a good knowledge of the road, he could go several times faster than Buell’s army.  He anticipated a pleasant ride.  The forest seemed to him to be fairly drenched in spring.  Little birds flaming in color darted among the boughs and others more modest in garb poured forth a full volume of song.  Dick, sensitive to sights and sounds, hummed a tune himself.  It was the thundering song of the sea that he had heard Samuel Jarvis sing in the Kentucky Mountains: 

    They bore him away when the day had fled,
    And the storm was rolling high,
    And they laid him down in his lonely bed
    By the light of an angry sky. 
    The lightning flashed and the wild sea lashed
    The shore with its foaming wave,
    And the thunder passed on the rushing blast,
    As it howled o’er the rover’s grave.

He pressed on, hour after hour, through the deep woods, meeting no one, but content.  At noon his horse suddenly showed signs of great weariness, and Dick, remembering how much he had ridden him over muddy roads, gave him a long rest.  Besides, there was no need to hurry.  The Southern army was at Corinth, in Mississippi, three or four days’ journey away, and there had been no scouts or skirmishers in the woods between.