Fremont journal. [volume] (Fremont, Sandusky County [Ohio]) 1853-1866, 1860-04-27

TWAS at lne Dattle OF DfanuyWlne tnhL
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 forgot.
Mounted on large black horse, whose
strength and beauty of shape made you
forget the plaiuness of his caparson, Pulas-
XII himself, with form of 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 was
stamped with an expression of abiding mel
ancholy. Bronzed in hue, lighted by large
dark eyes, with the lip darkened by thick
moustache, his throat and chin were covered
with 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, fashion
ed Of tempered steel, was one that war
rior alone could lift.
1t was in this array he rode to battle
followed by band of three hundred men
whose faces, burnt with the scorching Of a
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 gbbet; there
fore, they fought their best and fought to
the last gasp, rather than mutter word
about "quarter."
When they charged it was one man,
their three hundred swords flashing over
their heads, against the clouds of battle
They came down upon the enemy in terri
Bile silence, without word spoken, not
even whisper. You could hear the tramp
of their steeds, you could hear the rattliug
of their scabbards, but that was all.
Yet when they closed with the British,
you could hear noise like that of hund-
red hammers, beating the hot iron on the
anvil. You could see Pulaski himself, rid
ing yonder in his white uniform, his black
steed rearing aloft, as turning his head
over his shoulder, he spoke to his men:
IT OFUuFtS, OTUu6IN, JOf WuItS'
1t was but broken German, yet they un-
derstood 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,
then the ground was covered with dead,
while the living enemy scattered in panic
before their path.
1t was on this batile-day of Brandywine
that the Count was in his glory. He un-
derstood but little English, so that he spoke
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, and fearit All over the field, from yon-
der Quaker meeting house, away to the top
of Osborn'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:
''ForUGrts, BrIaern, forwarts"
1t was in the retreat of Brandywine, that
the Poander was most terrible. 1t was
when tho men of badly armed,
poorly fed, shabbily clad-gave way, step
by step, before the overwhelming discipline
of the British host, that Pulaski looked like
a battlefield mounted on his demon-steed.
His cap had fallen from his brow. His
barred head shone in an occasional sunbeam,
or grew crimson with flash from the can
non or rife. 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-stll il rose
there, executing British hireling when it
fell-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 field; he saw the British
yonder stripping their coats from their
backs in the madness of pursuit. He look
ed 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 convused with rage.
He rode madly upon the bayonets of pursu-
ing English, his sword gathering victims
even there, in front of their whole army, he
flung his steed across the path of the re-
treating Americans be besought them, in
broken English, 10 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 tone in which he spoke thrilled their
blood.
That picture, too, standing out from the
clouds Of battle---a warrior, eonyulsed with
passion, covered with blood, leaning over
the fire, and the muscles of his bronzed
face writhed like serpents-that picture,
say, filed many heart with new courage,
nerved many wounded arm for the fight
again.
Those reireating men turned, they faced
the enemy agaip-like greyhounds before
the wolf--they sprang upon the necks Of
the foe, and bore them down by one desper-
ale charge.
Il was al this moment that Washington
came rishipg once more to the battle.
Those people know but little Of The