“I am taking a train-load of powder to General Beauregard,” was his stereotyped answer, as he pointed to the closed box-cars behind him, within one of which lay concealed the bulk of his confederates.

For some time they went swimmingly on, without delay or difficulty.  Yet trouble was in the air, ill-fortune awaiting them in front, pursuing them from behind.  They had, by the fatality of unlucky chance, chosen the wrong day for their work.  Yesterday they would have found a clear track; to-day the road ahead was blocked with trains, hurrying swiftly southward.

At Kingston, thirty miles from Big Shanty, this trouble came upon them in a rush.  A local train was to pass at that point.  Andrews was well aware of this, and drew his train upon the siding to let it pass, expecting when it had gone to find the road clear to Chattanooga.  The train came in on time, halted, and on its last car was seen waving the red danger-flag, the railroad signal that another train was following close behind.  Andrews looked at this with no friendly eyes.

“How comes it,” he asked the conductor, somewhat sharply, “that the road is blocked in this manner, when I have orders to take this powder to Beauregard without delay?”

“Mitchel has taken Huntsville,” answered the conductor.  “They say he is coming to Chattanooga.  We are getting everything out of there as quickly as we can.”

This looked serious.  How many trains might there be in the rear?  A badly-blocked road meant ruin to their enterprise and possibly death to themselves.  They waited with intense anxiety, each minute of delay seeming to stretch almost into an hour.  The next train came.  They watched it pass with hopeful eyes.  Ah! upon its rear floated that fatal red flag, the crimson emblem of death, as it seemed to them.

The next train came.  Still the red flag!  Still hope deferred, danger coming near!  An hour of frightful anxiety passed.  It was torture to those upon the engine.  It was agony to those in the box-car, who knew nothing of the cause of this frightful delay, and to whom life itself must have seemed to have stopped.

Andrews had to cast off every appearance of anxiety and to feign easy indifference, for the station people were showing somewhat too much curiosity about this train, whose crew were strangers, and concerning which the telegraph had sent them no advices.  The practised spy was full of resources, but their searching questions taxed him for satisfying answers.

At length, after more than an hour’s delay, the blockade was broken.  A train passed destitute of the red flag.  The relief was great.  They had waited at that station like men with the hangman’s rope upon their necks.  Now the track to Chattanooga was clear and success seemed assured.  The train began to move.  It slowly gathered speed.  Up went hope in the hearts of those upon the engine.  New life flowed in the veins of those within the car as they heard the grinding sound on the rails beneath them, and felt the motion of their prison upon wheels.