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,