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

OF prudence ana caution, Win but spark
of enterprise. American Fabiusl When
you will show me that the Roman Fabius
a heart of fire, nerves of steel, a soul that
rushed from the wilds like the Skippack,
upon an army like the British at German
town, or started from ice and. snow, like
that which lay across the Delaware, upon
hordes like those of the Hessans at Tren-
ton--then l will lower Washington down
into Fabius. This comparison of our he
roes, with the barbarian demigods of
Rome, only illustrates the poverty of the
mind that makes it.
Compare Brutus, the assassin of his
friend, with Washington, the savior of
his people Cicero, the opponent of Cat
aline, with Henry, the Champion of Con
tinent! What beggary of thought Let
us learn to be a little Independent to know
our great men, as they were, not by com
parison with the barbarian heroes of old
Rome.
Let us learn that Washington was no
negdtive thing, but all chivalry and genius.
1t was in the battle of Brandywino that
this truth was made plain. He came rush
ing on to the battle. He boheld his men
hcwn down by the British; he heard them
shrek his name, and regardless of his per
sonal safety, he rushed to Join them.
Yes, it was in the dread havoc of that
retreat that Washington, rushing forward
into the very centre of tho melee, was en-
tangled in the enemy's troops, on the top of
high hill, Southwest of the meeting
house, while Pulaski was sweeping on with
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 hull
and around him-wbie Pulaski, on hill
some hundred yards distant, was scattering
a parting blessing among the hordes of
Hanover.
1t was glorious prize, this Mister Wash
ington, in the heart of the British army.
Suddenly the Polander turned--his eye
caught the sight of the iron grey and its
rider. He turned to his troopers; his lip
wreathed with grim smie-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 dark body, sol
id and compact, was speeding over the val
lev like thunderbot torn from the earth
three hundred swords rose glittering in
faint glimpse of sunlight-and in front of
the avalanche with his form raised to its
full hight, dark frown on his brow, fierce
smile on his lip, rode Pulaski. Like a spir-
it reused 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 tor-Washington
The British troops had encircled the
American leader-already they felt secure
of their proy--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 does it mean9
That terrible beating of hoofs, what
does it portend3
That ominous slence-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 ALI
Pulaski is on our track The terror Of
the British army is in our wake
And on they came-he and his gallant
band. A moment and he had swept over
the Britishers-cruahed- 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 tho iron band sweep round the form
of George Washington-they encirclc 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 soldiers battle joy.
It was at Savannah that night came
down upon Pulaski.
Yes, | see him now, under the gloom of
night, riding forward towards yonder ram
parts, his black steed rearing aloft, while
two hundred of his iron men follow at bis
back
For the last time they hear that war cry :
Forwarts, BruderR, torwarts!
Then they saw that black horse piunging
forward, his forefeet resting on the cannon
of the enemy, while his warrior rider rose
in all the pride of his form, his face bathed
in flash 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 aud the rider, resting to-
gether in death, that noble face glaring in
the midnight sky with CLASSY eyes.
So in his glory he died. He died while
America and Poland we're 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 dead9
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 ban
ners 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 repent