“Let us consider,” the Governor said; “let us consider. You have heard me speak of Salisbury, the hidden town in the northwest corner of the State, on the Housatonic. The world knows little of that town, but it hears much. There has been a foundry there since ’62. I am going to make an arsenal there, and manufacture guns there, and make it a powder-post. I must have post-riders who can lead teamsters and who can be trusted, and move quickly, to go from Lebanon green to Salisbury with my orders. No spot in America can be made more useful to our army than this. I am going to appoint you as an officer for this business, as a special messenger to Salisbury in the secret service.
“Dennis, no one can do so much as when he is doing many things. When I am doing two things well, I can do three. I never undertake anything that I can not do well, but experience enables us to do many things well, as you are learning yourself, Dennis O’Hay.”
Dennis bowed.
Salisbury was a hidden place, but rich in nature. It was a place of iron-mines, with limestone and granite at the foot of the mountains. Here the United States began to cast cannon and gather saltpeter. The works grew. Cannon-balls, bombs, shells, grape-shot, anchors, hand-grenades, swivels, mess-pots and kettles, all implements of war were made and stored here. The armaments of ships were furnished here by skilled hands. Here the furnaces blazed night and day. Here the ore-diggers, founders, molders, and guards were constantly at work. There came here an army of teamsters for transportation. The Governor wished one whom he could trust to bear his orders to this town hidden among the mountains, and Dennis was such a man. Dennis could be spared, as there was a regular guard at the alarm-post now, and the church afforded it a shelter.
The reader who makes a pilgrimage to Lebanon to visit the “war office” should note the old church and recall the habits of a stately past, when men lived less for money-making and more for the things that live.
The solemn bell rings out as of old, but it is over the graves of people who were the empire builders, but who knew it not except by faith. The gray stones are crumbling where they lie. The engine-whistle sounds afar, and Willimantic reflects the life of new times. Here New England of old lives on—apart from the hurrying world of steam and electricity.
The great cedars are gone, though cedar swamps are near. Night settles down over all in silence, and one feels here that this is a lonely world.
The lights have gone out in the old Alden Tavern, and the tavern itself is gone, but nature here is beautiful among the hills, and to the susceptible eye the hills are touched by the spirit of the patriots of old.