The spirit of democracy. [volume] (Woodsfield, Ohio) 1844-1994, 1855-08-01
Count Pulaski.
1t 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 warrior
to look upon but once and never forget.
Mounted on large black horse, whose
strength and beauty of shape made you
forget the rlainness of his caparison, Pu-
laski himself with form six feet in height
massive chest, and limbs of iron, was seen
from afar relieved by the cloud of battle
His face grim with the scars of Poland
was the face of man who had seen much
trouble, and endured much wrong II
was stamped with an expression of abiding
melancholy. Bronzed in hue, lighted by
large black eyes, with the lip darkcned by
a thick moustache, his throat and chin
were covered with a heavy beard, while
his hair fell in raven masses from beneath
his troopers cap, shielded with ridge Of
glittering steel His hair and beard were
of the same hue.
The sword that hung by his side, fash.
ioned of tempered steel, with hilt oi
iron, was one that warrior alone could
lift.
1t was in this array that he rode to bat.
tie followed by band of three hundred
men, whose faces, burnt with the scorch-
ing of tropical sun, or hardened by
northern SHOWS, bore the scars of many
a battle. They were mostly Europeans;
some Germans some Polanders, and some
deserters from the British army. These
were the men to fight To be taken by
the British would be death on the gibbet;
therefore they fought to their>last gasp
rather than mutter word about "quar-
ter"
When they charged, it was as one man.
their three hundred swords flashing ove1
their heads against the cloud of battle
They came down upon the enemy in ter
rible silence, without word spoken, not
even a whisper.
You could hear the tramp Of theil
steeds, you could hear the rafting of theil
scabbards, but that was all. AS they
closed with the British, you could hear q
noise like the echo of hundred hammers
beating the iron on the anvil, you could
see Pulaski himself, riding yonder in his
white uniform, his black steed riding aloft
as turning his head over his shoulder, he
spoke to his men:
FoRwARTs, BRUDERN, FoRwARTs !"
1t was but broken German, yet they
understood it, those three hundred mer
of sunburt faces, wounds, and gashes
With one burst they rushed upon the ene
my. For a few moments they used theil
swords, and then the ground was covered
with dead, while their living, enemy scat.
tered in panic before their path.
1t was on this battle day of Brandy
wine, 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. 1t was severe lexicon
but the British soon learned to read it.
and to know it.
All over the field from yonder Quaker
Westinghouse 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 eyes and
quivering nostrils-they new the warrior
well, they trembled when they heard hin
i say:
/ "FoRwARTs, BRuDERN, FoRwARTs
It was in the retreat of Brandywine
that the Polander was most terrible. Il
was when the men of Sullivan-badly
armed, poorly fed, shabbily clothed gave
way, stepby step. before the overwhelming
discipline of the British host, that Pulaski
looked like battle-fend mounted on his
demon steed
His cap had fallen from his brow. His
broad head shone in an occasional sun.
beam, or grew crimson with the fash ot
an occasional cannon or rife.
His white uniform was rent and stained
in fact, from head to foot he was covered
with dust and blood
i Still his right arm was free, still it rose
there, executing British hireling wher
it fell; still his voice was heard, hoarss
and husky but strong in every turn
Forwarts, Brudern!"
It was at Savannah that night came
down upon Pulaski.
Yes, l see him now, under the gloon
of night riding toward yonder rampant
his black steed rearing aloft, while two
hundred of his own men follow at his
back.
Right on, neither looking to the right
or left he rides, his eye fixed upon tht
cannon of the British, his sword gleam
ing over his headl
! For the last time they heard that wal
cry:
i "FoRwARTs, BRUDERN, FoRwARrs
Then they saw the black horse plung.
1 ing forward, his feet resting on the cannon
of the enemy; while his rider rose in all
the pride of his form, his face bathed
in flush of red light.
! The flash once gone, they saw Pulaski
no more. But they found him-yes be.
IL