The national whig., 1847-06-19
From the Saturday Courier
P U LA s KI.
BY GEORGE LiPPARD.

1t was at the battle OF brandywine that
Count Pulaski appeared in all his glory.
As he rode charging there into the thick
est Of the battle, he was warrior to look
upon but once, and never forget.
Mounted on large black horse, whose
strength and beauty Of shape made you for
get the plainness Of his caparison, Pulaski
himself, with form six feet in height, mas
sive chest and limbs iron, was attired in a
white uniform, that was seen from alar,
relieved by the black clouds Of battle. His
fac egrim with the scars Of Poland, was
the face Of man who had seen much
trouble, endured much wrong. 1t was
stamped with an expression Of abiding
melancholy, bronzed in hue, lighted by
large dark eyes, with the lip darkened by Q
thick moustache, his throat and chin were
covered with heavy beard, while his hair
fell in raven masses, from beneath his troop
er'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, FASH
ioned oftempered steel, with a hilt Of iron,
WAS one that warrior alone could
Ii was in this array he rode to battle, fol
lowed by band Of three hundred men
whose faces, burnt with the scorchings Of :
tropical sun, hardened by northern SHOWS.
bore the scars Of many battle. They were
mostly Europeans some Germans, some
Polanders, some deserters from the British
army. These were the men to fight. TIC
be taken by the British would be death, and
death on the gibbet I; therefore they fought
their best and fought TO the last gasp, rather
than mutter word about" quarter"
When they charged it was as one man,
thier three hundred swords flashed over
their heads, against the clouds Of battle.
Then came down upon the enemy in terri
bic silence without word spoken, not even
a whisper. You could hear the tramp Of
steeds, you could hear the rattling Of their
scabbards, but that was all
Yet when they closed with the British,
you could hear noise, like the echo Of q
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, forsoarts p
II was but broken German, yet they 1n.
derstood it, those three hundred men of sun
burnt face, wounds and gashes. With one
burst they crashed upon the enemy. For
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 batlle-day Of Brandy ywine
that the Count was in his glory. He un-
derstood but little English, SO he spake wha,
he had 10 say with the edge Of his sword.
1t was severe Lexicon, but the British
soon learned to read it, and to know il, and
fear il. All over the field, from yondeI
Quaker meeting house away to the top o
Osborne's Hill, the soldiers Of the enemy
saw Pulaski come. and learned to know hi.
name by heart.
That white uniform, that bronzed visage
that black horse win burning eye and quiv'
ering nostrils, they knew the warrior well
they trembled when they heard him say,
"Forwarts, Bruden, forwarts?"
1t was in the Retreat Of Brandywine, tina
the men Of Sullivan, badly armed, poorly fec
and shabbily clad, gave away, step by step
before the overwhelming discipline Of th'
British host, that Pulaski looked like bat
tle-fred, mounted on his demon-steed
His cap had fallen from his brow. Hi,
barred head shone in an occasional sunbeam
or grew crimson with flash from the can
non or rife. His white uniform was rem
and stained in fact from head to foot, h
was covered with dust and blood
Still his right arm was free-still it ros'
there, executing British hireling, when !