He was despondent, and sat in the guard-house with drooping head.
“Of what are you thinking?” asked Dennis. “You may give me your thoughts with safety. The Governor is the soul of honor, and he will not cause me to violate the spirit of my promise that I have made.”
“I am thinking of the moment when the captors of André said to him, ‘We must take off your boots.’”
For in the boots of the unfortunate officer were the despatches from Arnold offering to treacherously surrender West Point.
“That moment must have stricken terror to André’s heart,” said the man. “Then it was that he saw the whole of life. Your Governor seems to be a very kind-hearted man—the people love him. I am sorry that I ever had evil thoughts of him. But, my friend, send me away; for should a fleet descend upon the coast, the hatred of all these people will fall upon me. The man who suggests an evil that comes is held in detestation. I would not be safe here.”
“You are right, and you shall be sent to Boston.”
It was in the air that the Connecticut coast was to be attacked again. Connecticut must be defended by her own people, should it come, for it would not do to divide the American army in its great movement to crush the main army of the British of the south.
“I will send you, with the Governor’s approval, to Fort Trumbull, at New London, and I will accompany you there myself,” decided Dennis.
It was the 6th of November when the two set out on horseback for New London and Groton—a bright, glimmering day, the wayside bordered with goldenrod. The meadows were clouded with the aftermath and webby wild grasses, and seemed to sing with insects.