 | Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution |  |
XIII.—PULASKI.
It was at the battle of Brandywine that Count Pulaski appeared in all
his glory.
As he rode, charging there, into the thickest of the battle, he was a warrior
to look upon but once, and never forget.
Mounted on a large black horse, whose strength and beauty of shape
made you forget the plainness of his caparison, Pulaski himself, with a form
six feet in height, massive chest and limbs of iron, was attired in a white
uniform, that was seen from afar, relieved by the black clouds of battle.
His face, grim with the scars of Poland, was the face of a man who had
seen much trouble, endured much wrong. It was stamped with an expression
of abiding melancholy. Bronzed in hue, lighted by large dark eyes,
with the lip darkened by a thick moustache, his throat and chin were covered
with a heavy beard, while his hair fell in raven masses, from beneath
his trooper's cap, shielded with a ridge of glittering steel. His hair and
beard were of the same hue.
The sword that hung by his side, fashioned of tempered steel, with a hilt
of iron, was one that a warrior alone could lift.
It was in this array he rode to battle, followed by a band of three hundred
by northern snows, bore the scars of many a battle. They were
mostly Europeans; some Germans, some Polanders, some deserters from
the British army. These were the men to fight. To be taken by the
British would be death, and death on the gibbet; therefore, they fought
their best and fought to the last gasp, rather than mutter a word about
“quarter.”
When they charged it was as one man, their three hundred swords flashing
over their heads, against the clouds of battle. They came down upon
the enemy in terrible silence, without a word spoken, not even a whisper.
You could hear the tramp of their steeds, you could hear the rattling of their
scabbards, but that was all.
Yet when they closed with the British, you could hear a noise like the
echo of a hundred hammers, beating the hot iron on the anvil. You could
see Pulaski himself, riding yonder in his white uniform, his black steed
rearing aloft, as turning his head over his shoulder he spoke to his men:
“Forwarts, Brudern, forwarts!”
It was but broken German, yet they understood it, those three hundred
men of sunburnt face, wounds and gashes. With one burst they crashed
upon the enemy. For a few moments they used their swords, and then
the ground was covered with dead, while the living enemy scattered in panic
before their path.
It was on this battle-day of Brandywine that the Count was in his glory.
He understood but little English, so he spake what he had to say with the
edge of his sword. It was a severe Lexicon, but the British soon learned
to read it, and to know it, and fear it. All over the field, from yonder
Quaker meeting-house, away to the top of Osborne's Hill, the soldiers of
the enemy saw Pulaski come, and learned to know his name by heart.
That white uniform, that bronzed visage, that black horse with burning
eye and quivering nostrils, they knew the warrior well; they trembled
when they heard him say:
“Forwarts, Brüdern, forwarts!”
It was in the Retreat of Brandywine, that the Polander was most terrible.
It was when the men of Sullivan—badly armed, poorly fed, shabbily clad—
gave way, step by step, before the overwhelming discipline of the British
host, that Pulaski looked like a battle-fiend, mounted on his demon-steed.
His cap had fallen from his brow. His bared head shone in an occasional
sunbeam, or grew crimson with a flash from the cannon or rifle. His
white uniform was rent and stained; in fact, from head to foot, he was
covered with dust and blood.
Still his right arm was free—still it rose there, executing a British hireling
when it fell—still his voice was heard, hoarse and husky, but strong in
its every tone—“Forwarts, Brüdern!”
He beheld the division of Sullivan retreating from the field; he saw the
pursuit. He looked to the South, for Washington, who, with the reserve,
under Greene, was hurrying to the rescue, but the American Chief was
not in view.
Then Pulaski was convulsed with rage.
He rode madly upon the bayonets of the pursuing British, his sword
gathering victim after victim; even there, in front of their whole army, he
flung his steed across the path of the retreating Americans, he besought
them, in broken English, to turn, to make one more effort; he shouted in
hoarse tones that the day was not yet lost!
They did not understand his words, but the tones in which he spoke
thrilled their blood.
That picture, too, standing out from the clouds of battle—a warrior, convulsed
with passion, covered with blood, leaning over the neck of his steed,
while his eyes seemed turned to fire, and the muscles of his bronzed face
writhed like serpents—that picture, I say, filled many a heart with new
courage, nerved many a wounded arm for the fight again.
Those retreating men turned, they faced the enemy again—like greyhounds
at bay before the wolf—they sprang upon the necks of the foe, and
bore them down by one desperate charge.
It was at this moment that Washington came rushing on once more to
the battle.
Those people know but little of the American General who call him the
American Fabius, that is, a general compounded of prudence and caution,
with but a spark of enterprise. American Fabius! When you will show
me that the Roman Fabius had a heart of fire, nerves of steel, a soul that
hungered for the charge, an enterprise that rushed from the wilds like the
Skippack, upon an army like the British at Germantown, or started from
ice and snow, like that which lay across the Delaware, upon hordes like
those of the Hessians, at Trenton—then I will lower Washington down
into Fabius. This comparison of our heroes, with the barbarian demi-gods
of Rome, only illustrates the poverty of the mind that makes it.
Compare Brutus, the ASSASSIN of his friend, with Washington, the Saviour
of the People! Cicero, the opponent of Cataline, with Henry, the
Champion of a Continent! What beggary of thought! Let us learn to
be a little independent, to know our great men, as they were, not by comparison
wiih the barbarian heroes of old Rome.
Let us learn that Washington was no negative thing, but all chivalry and
genius.
It was in the battle of Brandywine that this truth was made plain. He
came rushing on to battle. He beheld his men hewn down by the British;
he heard them shriek his name, and regardless of his personal safety, he
rushed to join them.
Yes, it was in the dread havoc of that retreat that Washington, rushing
troops, on the top of a high hill, south-west of the Meeting House, while
Pulaski was sweeping on with his grim smile, to have one more bout with
the eager red coats.
Washington was in terrible danger—his troops were rushing to the south
—the British troopers came sweeping up the hill and around him—while
Pulaski, on a hill some hundred yards distant, was scattering a parting
blessing among the hordes of Hanover.
It was a glorious prize, this Mister Washington, in the heart of the
British army.
Suddenly the Polander turned—his eye caught the sight of the iron grey
and his rider. He turned to his troopers; his whiskered lip wreathed with
a grim smile—he waved his sword—he pointed to the iron grey and its
rider.
There was but one moment:
With one impulse that iron band wheeled their war horses, and then a
dark body, solid and compact was speeding over the valley like a thunder-bolt
torn from the earth—three hundred swords rose glittering in a faint
glimpse of sunlight—and in front of the avalanche, with his form raised to
its full height, a dark frown on his brow, a fierce smile on his lip, rode
Pulaski. Like a spirit roused into life by the thunderbolt, he rode—his
eyes were fixed upon the iron grey and its rider—his band had but one
look, one will, one shout for—Washington!
The British troops had encircled the American leader—already they felt
secure of their prey—already the head of that traitor, Washington, seemed
to yawn above the gates of London.
But that trembling of the earth in the valley, yonder. What means it?
That terrible beating of hoofs, what does it portend?
That ominous silence—and now that shout—not of words nor of names,
but that half yell, half hurrah, which shrieks from the Iron Men, as they
scent their prey? What means it all?
Pulaski is on our track! The terror of the British army is in our wake!
And on he came—he and his gallant band. A moment and he had swept
over the Britishers—crushed—mangled, dead and dying they strewed the
green sod—he had passed over the hill, he had passed the form of Washington.
Another moment! And the iron band had wheeled—back in the same
career of death they came! Routed, defeated, crushed, the red coats flee
from the hill, while the iron band sweep round the form of George Washington—they
encircle him with their forms of oak, their swords of steel—
the shout of his name shrieks through the air, and away to the American
host they bear him in all a soldier's battle joy.
It was at Savannah, that night came down upon Pulaski.
Yes, I see him now, under the gloom of night, riding forward towards
yonder ramparts, his black steed rearing aloft, while two hundred of his
iron men follow at his back.
Right on, neither looking to right or left, he rides, his eye fixed upon the
cannon of the British, his sword gleaming over his head.
For the last time, they heard that war cry —
“Forwarts, Brudern, forwarts!”
Then they saw that black horse plunging forward, his forefeet resting on
the cannon of the enemy, while his warrior-rider arose in all the pride of
his form, his face bathed in a flush of red light.
That flash once gone, they saw Pulaski no more. But they found him,
yes, beneath the enemy's cannon, crushed by the same gun that killed his
steed—yes, they found them, the horse and rider, resting together in death,
that noble face glaring in the midnight sky with glassy eyes.
So in his glory he died. He died while America and Poland were yet
in chains. He died, in the stout hope, that both would one day, be free.
With regard to America, his hope has been fulfilled, but Poland —
Tell me, shall not the day come, when yonder monument—erected by
those warm Southern hearts, near Savannah—will yield up its dead?
For Poland will be free at last, as sure as God is just, as sure as he governs
the Universe. Then, when re-created Poland rears her Eagle aloft
again, among the banners of nations, will her children come to Savannah,
to gather up the ashes of their hero, and bear him home, with the chaunt
of priests, with the thunder of cannon, with the tears of millions, even as
repentant France bore home her own Napoleon.
Yes, the day is coming, when Kosciusko and Pulaski will sleep side by
side, beneath the soil of Re-created Poland.
| Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution | |