After a stay of several weeks in Chattanooga the party were taken by railroad to Madison, in Georgia, for it was feared that General Mitchell was about to take possession of the former place. In a few days, however, when the danger had passed, they were returned to Chattanooga. It was not until September of 1863 that this city fell into the hands of a Union force.
Of the movements and separation of the prisoners after their return to Chattanooga, or of the experiences of some of them in Knoxville, it is not necessary to make detailed mention. Andrews, after a trial, was executed in Atlanta as a spy, dying like a brave man, and seven of his companions, condemned by a court-martial, shared the same fate. It was the fortune of war. George could never dance, as he had promised, at his leader’s wedding.
Let us change the scene to the city prison of Atlanta, where the remaining fourteen members of the expedition were to be found in the following October. Among them were Watson, George Knight, Jenks and Macgreggor. Waggie, too, was still in evidence, but he would have found life rather dreary had not the kind-hearted jailer allowed one of his family to take the dog many a scamper around the city.
“Poor Andrews,” said Watson, one afternoon, “it is hard to realize that he and seven others of us have gone.”
The party were occupying a well-barred room on the second floor of the prison. This second floor comprised four rooms for prisoners, two on each side of a hallway. In the hallway was a staircase which led to the first story, where the jailer and his family had their quarters. Outside the building was a yard surrounded by a fence about nine feet high, and here and there a soldier, fully armed, was on guard.
“I don’t want to be doleful, boys,” said Macgreggor, “but I think we will soon follow Andrews. As the days rolled on and we heard no more of any trial or execution I began to hope that the Confederate Government had forgotten the rest of us. I even thought it possible we might be exchanged for the same number of Confederates in Northern prisons, and thus allowed to go back to our army. But I’ve kept my eyes and ears open—and I have now become anxious.”
“Why so?” asked George. The boy looked thin and very pale, after his long confinement.
“I heard some one—I think it was the Provost-Marshal—talking to the jailer this morning, at the front door of the prison. I was looking out of the window; you fellows were all playing games. ‘Keep a very strict eye on those engine-stealers,’ the marshal said; ‘a court is going to try them—and you know what that means—death! A trial will be nothing more than a formality, for the whole fourteen of them are spies, under the rules of war. They were soldiers who entered the enemy’s line in civilian disguise. So don’t let them get away.’”
Macgreggor’s listeners stirred uneasily. This was not what might be called pleasant news.
“Why didn’t you tell us before?” asked Jenks.