PULASKI
The storms of heaven
Beat on him; gaping hinds stare at his woe.
—Joanna Baillie.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate. —Byron.
An exile, ill in heart and frame,—
A wanderer, weary of the way. —Mrs. Osgood.
Fastening the skiff to the overhanging bough of a tree, Uncle Lawrence
stepped ashore, followed by Major Gordon. For about ten minutes, the two
advanced along a narrow woodland path, until suddenly they were stopped
by the challenge of a sentry.
Yielding themselves prisoners immediately, they were conducted to a
woodland bivouac, where several volunteers recognized both Major Gordon
and his companion. The horses picketed about, with the dismounted
cavalry soldiers, imparted to the Major the glad intelligence that Count
Pulaski had arrived.
“Say to the Count,” he said, addressing his captor, “that I desire
an interview, as soon as possible.” For he was now all impatience to
be gone.
In a few minutes he was ushered into the presence of his successor, whom
we must take this opportunity to describe.
The Count Pulaski, who served so gallantly in the war of independence,
until he fell at the storming of Savannah, must not be confounded with
his relative, who achieved the daring feat of carrying off Stanislaus,
King of Poland, from the heart of his capital. Nevertheless he was
scarcely inferior in daring to that adventurous conspirator. Driven from
his native land, in consequence of his connexion with the patriotic
party, the Pulaski to whom we now introduce the reader, had, like
Kosciusko, offered his sword to the struggling colonies of England, and
now held the rank of Brigadier General, with the command of the entire
American cavalry.
A more consummate horseman, perhaps, never lived. When in the saddle he
seemed to be a part of the charger he bestrode. The traditions told of
his skill appear really fabulous. He could pick up a pistol when
galloping at speed; dismount and mount again in full career; and make
his horse execute the most difficult feats apparently without moving
hand or limb. Seventy-five years ago, equestrianism, as an art, was
carried to a perfection unknown at the present time; and to say that
Pulaski was considered the most perfect rider of his day, is, therefore,
to assert that he would have been regarded as a miracle now.
Those who were intimate with the exile spoke enthusiastically of his
lofty honor and the steadfastness of his friendship. But the number of
these were few. Though courageous in his deportment, he was reserved,
and this, added to his ignorance of the language, circumscribed the
number of his associates. When alone he was the victim of a settled
melancholy; for he remembered then, in all its force, that he was an
exile, and what exile meant. As an officer he was diligent, sober and
intrepid, never permitting himself to be disheartened by difficulties,
but prosecuting the vexatious duty of organizing the cavalry force amid
a thousand discouragements. The legionary corps which he established,
and which he so chivalrously led till he fell at the siege of Savannah,
was the model of one subsequently raised by Major Henry Lee, and which
won immortal laurels under Greene, in the southern campaign.
Major Gordon was among the few who enjoyed the friendship of Pulaski.
The gallant Pole was standing with folded arms, looking sadly up to the
sky, thinking that the stars, which shone down on him, shone also on his
native land, when the Major was announced. At once the melancholy faded
from the Count’s face, and he eagerly embraced our hero in the Polish
fashion.
“Mon ami,” he cried, in excellent French, “this is, indeed, a
surprise. I heard you had been taken prisoner, or killed, the accounts
did not agree as to which. How did you manage to escape?”
In a few hurried words, Major Gordon explained the cause and manner of
his deliverance. The Count listened breathlessly. When, at last, the
Major paused, Pulaski said, earnestly,
“Much as I wish to have a friend’s companionship tonight, for I am
in one of my dark moods, I beg you, dear Major, to be gone at once. Miss
Aylesford must be rescued, or avenged, no matter at what cost. I shall
count it one of the few fortunate events of my life, that I arrived here
in time to release you from your command, especially if you succeed in
recovering this fair girl from the hands of the refugees.”
The Count accompanied Major Gordon to the river side, where, with many a
“God-speed” from Pulaski, our hero and his companion embarked again.
The little lateen sail was given to the wind, and the boat went dancing
up the stream, until it vanished from the eyes of the spectators like
the white wing of a gull disappearing in the distant gloom of the
seaboard.
For some time there was silence on board the skiff. But at last Uncle
Lawrence spoke.
“We’ll be able, I suppose,” said he, “to find a few men at the
Forks; and we’d better strike into the woods there, instead of
following the track of the varmints from the river. I’ve a notion I
know pretty well where to find the rogues. If Arrison was alone, you
might have to hunt him here, and there, and everywhere; but when a
lady’s in the case, he’s sure to take to some roof; and there’s a
clearing, a matter of six miles or so, sou’east of Sweetwater, and
right in the heart of the swamp, where a little gal lives, that I’ve
heerd was a niece of Arrison’s. I once stopped there for a drink of
water; but though it’s the only time I was ever there, seein’ I
don’t gin’raly hunt on that side of Sweetwater, I can go to the
place as straight as my gun would carry buckshot; it’s a pity,” he
added, with a sigh, “that I’ve lost the old piece.”
The fugitives did not, however, continue their route without pausing at
the post where the refugees were fired on. They did this in the faint
hope that the patriot boat, which Aylesford had seen set forth in
pursuit, had overtaken the refugees.
Neither Major Gordon nor Uncle Lawrence knew how much each had secretly
nourished this expectation, until it was destroyed by the intelligence
they received at the post. But one good result followed the narrative
they hurriedly gave in return. The sentry, who proved to be an old
acquaintance of Uncle Lawrence, when he learned who the lady was, and
into whose hands she had fallen, promised to follow, within half an
hour, with four other able woodsmen. “We shan’t be wanted below now,
since the Neck’s burnt,” he said, “unless the British advance up
the river; which they’ll not try, I reckon, since Pulaski’s come.”
The sun was but an hour high, when every arrangement had been completed,
and a party of a dozen determined men, all experienced shots, and all
well armed, set out from the Forks, under the guidance of Uncle Lawrence
and the leadership of Major Gordon. To hunt down the refugees, if it
took days instead of hours; to rescue Kate unharmed, and to avenge her,
at any cost:—these were the solemn vows of every member of the party.
While Uncle Lawrence had been marshaling the expedition, Major Gordon
had thrown himself on Selim, and galloped to Sweetwater, with the faint
hope that Kate might have been released, or made good her escape. Early
as it was, he found Mrs. Warren already up. The good lady, as we have
seen, had not slept a wink; and, just before the Major’s arrival, she
had been summoned to interrogate Pomp, who, to the amazement of all, had
suddenly appeared, leading Arab captive.
The lad, of course, suppressed his fright, but said, that not hearing
anything of Kate on the road to Mr. Herman’s, but observing the tracks
of what he thought her horse, he had followed down the river, by
unfrequented paths, till about nightfall, when, passing a small cabin,
he had been surprised to hear Arab whinny, from a shed that was
apparently used for a cow-stable.
“When I hears dat,” said he, “I goes up to de door, and axes ef
dey wouldn’t let me stay all night, telling ‘em I’d lost my way,
and was afeerd of de refugees. Dey said I might, ef I’d sleep in de
barn; and guv me some cold pork. De minnit I goes in de stable, Arab he
knew me, and lays his nose agin me, as ef he’d been a kitten, deed he
did. I got in among de salt hay, and begun to snore dre’ful loud; but
I wasn’t asleep for all dat. By’m bye, when de moon rose, I gits up,
saddles de colt, takes Arab by de halter, and here I is.” And he
looked around, not a little proud of his exploit, while Dinah, hugging
him in her arms, sobbed over her recovered boy.
It was at this juncture that Major Gordon arrived. Mrs. Warren, in
dishabille, her hair all dishevelled, no sooner saw him, than she rushed
forward, frantically asking if he had brought back Kate. The Major, who
had hoped, as we have seen, to find Miss Aylesford at Sweetwater, was
not less disappointed than the anxious aunt; but he controlled his
feelings better, and considerately forbore informing Mrs. Warren either
of the terrible situation of her niece, or of Aylesford’s death. A fit
of hysterics almost immediately seized the now heart-broken woman, in
which condition, time being precious, the Major was compelled to leave
her, in order to reach the rendezvous.
Uncle Lawrence was waiting for him on his return. The little party set
forth immediately, the veteran leading the way to the refugee’s hut,
almost in a straight line.