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Updated: May 17, 2025
There could be no mistake. While he, Macgreggor and Watson were dining that day at the village tavern in Jasper, Hare was loitering on the porch of the place. But what of that? The three pretended Kentuckians had told their usual story, and professed their love for the Confederacy, and no one there had seemed to doubt their truthfulness for a moment. In vain the boy tried to fall asleep.
"A miss is as good as a mile," laughed Watson, as he stood with his two companions in the pitch black interior of the cabin, listening to the last faint sounds of the retreating Vigilants. "There's nothing like smallpox, eh?" said George. "Or nothing like a boy who can imitate a darky's voice," put in Macgreggor. "Where did you learn the art, George?"
This was not what might be called pleasant news. "Why didn't you tell us before?" asked Jenks. "I hadn't the heart to," returned Macgreggor. "You boys were all so cheerful." Watson cleared his voice. "I tell you what it is, boys," he whispered, as he gave Waggie a mournful pat; "if we don't want to be buried in an Atlanta graveyard we must escape!" George's white face flushed at the thought.
Just what Hare contemplated in the way of a trap he could not tell, yet it was evident that the sooner Watson and Macgreggor were awakened the more chance would all three have for escaping from whatever fate the farmer had in store for them. Cautiously George crept back until he was at the door of the room where the two men were heavily sleeping.
Already one of the Vigilants, evidently the leader, had dismounted. Approaching the door of the cabin, he gave it a push as if he expected it would open at once. But there was no yielding; Watson and Macgreggor were still leaning firmly against the other side. The leader began to knock on the door with a revolver.
"If, on investigation, it proves that you are not spies, you will be allowed to go on your way. If there's any doubt about it, however, you will be sent to Richmond." Macgreggor, with a bound, leaped in front of the Confederate, and, pulling out a revolver, pointed it at Lightfoot's head.
George, no less sanguine, was standing near Watson and Macgreggor, and occasionally slipping a lump of sugar into the overcoat pocket which served as a sort of kennel for the tiny Waggie. There was nothing about the party to attract undue attention.
"How on earth did you turn up here in the guise of a Confederate officer?" asked Watson, who now felt a sense of exhilaration in knowing that he might yet join Andrews at Marietta. "It is too long a story to tell," whispered Jenks. And the sooner we set off from here, the sooner we will meet at the appointed town." "When the war's over," remarked Macgreggor, "you can earn a fortune on the stage."
He would only bring the notice of every one in the train upon himself; suspicion would be aroused; he and his companions might be arrested; the whole plot for burning the bridges might be upset. "What can have gotten into George's head?" he said to himself a hundred times. Jenks and Macgreggor were asking themselves the same question.
His hearers, including Andrews, laughed, almost scornfully. "Just wait and see," returned Macgreggor. "A Southerner is as brave, and has as much brains as a Northerner." We shall see who was right in the matter. On sped the fugitive train once more, and in a few minutes it had stopped, with much bumping and rattle of brakes at the station called Adairsville.
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