Litchfield enquirer., 1847-01-07
Pull A SKI;
A LEGEND OF THE BRANDYWINE
BY GEORGE LIPPARD, ESQ.

As he rode, charging there, into the
thickest 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
forget the plainness Of his caparison, Pulas-
XII himself, with form six feet in height,
massive chest and limbs Of iron, was attired
in 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 man who had seen much trouble,
endured much wrong. 1t vas stamped with
an expression of abiding melancholy. Bron-
zed in hue, lighted by large, dark eyes, with
the lip darkened by thick moustache, his,
throat and chin covered with heavy beard,
while his hair fell in raven masses, from
beneath his troopers cap, shielded with
ridge of glitte1ing steel. His hair and beard
we're Of the same hue.
The sword that hung by his side, fash
Toned of tempered steel, with hilt of iron,
was one that warrior alone could lift.
1t was in this army he rode to battle, fol-
lowed by band Of three hundred men
whose faces, burnt with the scorching of
tropical sun, or 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.
To be taken by the British would be death,
and death on the gibbet; therefore they
fought their best and fought 10 the last gasp,
rather than mutter 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 word spoken, not even a
whisper. You could hear the tramp of their
steeds, you could hear the rattling Of their
scahboards, but that was all.
Yet when they closed with the British,
you could hear noise, like the echo of
hundred hammers, heating 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, BURDEN, FoRwARTs
1t was but unbroken German, yet they
understood it, those three hundred men of
sunburnt face, wounds and gashes. With
one burst they crashed upon the enemy
For few moments they used their swords,
and :hen the ground was covered with dead,
while the living enemy sca,hed in panic be-
fore their path.
1t was on this battle day of Brandywine
that the Count was in his glory. He un-
derstood but little English, SO he spake what
he had to say with the edge of his sword
1t 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 quiv-
ering nostrils, they knew the warrior we'll !;
they trembled when they heard him say:
"Forwarts, Burdern, forwarts"
1t was in the retreat Of Brandywine, that
the Polander was most terrible. 1t was when
the men Of Sullivan-badly armed. poorly
fed, stability clad-gave way, step by step,
before the overwhelming discipline of the
British host, that Pulaski looked like a
battle fend, mounted on his demon steed.
His cap had fallen from his brow. His
barred head shone in an occasional sunbeam,
or grew crimson with fash from the can
On 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 British hireling, when it
iell-still his voice was heard, hoarse and
husky, but strong in its every tone" For
warts, Brudern!"
| He beheld the division of Sullivan re-
treating from the battle field; he saw the
British yonder, stripping their coats from
their backs in the madness Of pursuit. He
looked to the South, for Washington, who
with the reserve, under Greene, was hurry
ing TO the rescue, but the American Chiei
was not in view.
Their Pulaski was convulsed with rage.
He rodeNmadly upon the bayonets Of the
pursuing British, his sword gathering vic
tim after victim; even there, in front OF theil
whole army, he flung his steed across the
nath of the retreating Americans, he be
sough, them, in his broken English, to turn
to make one more effort; he shouted in
lhoarse tones that the day was not yet lost!
Thew did not understand his words, bu