“Gentlemen,” he said, and the word cut neat and cool through the lingering noise. “We are gathered to bind the fates of our states together, not with mere treaties, but with the iron certainty of a road.” A breath. A rustle of shirt cuffs. “Not a rut through the mud, not a track for cattle,” he continued, “but a grand artery. A marvel worthy of the Republic. From Baltimore to the west, to the frontier and the territories beyond—where commerce may flow, and with it, the lifeblood of our nation.”
Book:Mountain Laurel