Off once more rattled “The General,” and George, in his capacity of fireman, felt about three inches taller than he had five minutes before. The spirits of Andrews seemed to be rising higher and higher. Thus far everything had gone so successfully that he began to believe that the happy ending of this piece of daring was already assured.
“Now, my boys, for a bit of diplomacy,” he said, at last, as the occupants of the cab saw that they were approaching a small station flanked by half a dozen houses. “Stop ‘The General’ here, Brown, for I think there’s a tank at the place.”
As the train reached the platform and slowly stopped, the station-master, a rustic-looking individual with a white beard three feet long, shambled up to the cab.
“Ain’t this Fuller’s train?” he drawled, gazing curiously at the four Northerners, as he gave a hitch to his shabby trousers. He could not understand the presence of the strangers in the engine, nor the disappearance of the passenger cars.
Andrews leaned out of the cab window. He knew that Fuller was the conductor of the stolen train, whom they had left behind at Big Shanty. “No,” he said, in a tone of authority, “this is not Fuller’s train. He’ll be along later; we have the right of way all along the line. I’m running a special right through to General Beauregard at Corinth. He is badly in need of powder.”
“Be the powder there?” asked the station-master, pointing to the three baggage cars.
The men hiding in one of them had received their instructions; they were as silent as the grave, and their doors were closed. The brakemen sat mute on top of the cars.
“Yes, there’s enough powder in there to blow up the whole State of Georgia,” returned Andrews.
“Wall, I’d give my shirt and my shoes to Beauregard if he wanted ’em,” said the man of the long beard. “He’s the best General we have in the Confederate service;—yes, better even than Robert Lee.”
“Well, then help Beauregard by helping me. I want more water—I see you have a tank here—and more wood.”