Gordon Pulaski The Forgotten Hero

Of Two Worlds
1. Auflage 2017
ISBN: 978-1-5439-2133-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 555 Seiten

Pulaski The Forgotten Hero, is an action packed historical novel set in 18th century Europe and America. It follows Casimir Pulaski from birth through the wars and battles he fought in Poland and America. In spite of, or perhaps because of, what was considered an abnormality, he became a hero on both continents, a masterful horseman, and the Father of the American Cavalry. He saved the most sacred religious site in Poland from invading Russians and General George Washington's life at the Battle of Brandywine. He fell in love with a Duke's wife and a backwoods Indian maiden and was killed while fighting for American Independence at the Siege of Savannah on October 9, 1779.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Gordon, Joan

Gordon, Mel

Leseproben

CHAPTER ONE A New World Le Croisic, France June 1777 The battle-seasoned, yet apprehensive thirty-two year old Casimir Pulaski was preparing for his greatest adventure and adrenalin rushed through his veins. He was leaving for America, a distant and strange land. He had heard it was a wild place with godless savages, cut throats, and ruffians ruling by brute force. He would arrive knowing no one, without his troops, unable to speak the language, and unfamiliar with its customs. But he had overcome worse and he was more confident of his future than at any time since leaving his homeland, Poland. He would succeed in America. He had to, he could not return home. Jaw locked in determination, he stood arrow straight at the edge of the wharf resplendent in the carefully tailored, gold braided, blue and white uniform of a high ranking Polish officer. He watched the white-capped indigo waves rush in to mingle with a teal green surf, crawl up the shell strewn beach, and retreat into the deep blue water again. He had never seen the ocean and was awed by the vastness of the Atlantic and both surprised and relieved to see the calm beauty before him. He expected the water to be dark green and murky; churning into monstrous rolling waves driven by violent storms. He remembered a painting showing such a scene and stories he had heard that the sea was a treacherous place, swallowing large ships and their passengers. He didn’t expect such tranquility. Despite his regal bearing, Casimir’s dark hair, ebony eyes, black moustache, and short, thin muscular body were clear indications that his heart pumped the blood of his fierce Tatar ancestors. He had the arrogant air of one who knew he was tougher and smarter than most. He knew it because he had commanded thousands of troops in battle against the Russian invaders who vastly outnumbered his forces and still, he usually won. He was rarely defeated and he was thinking only about victory in America. His greatest glory was yet to come. Woja, the old gypsy soothsayer, had predicted it. Always alert and vigilant, as if he were preparing for an attack, he surveyed his surroundings. His gaze followed a hill that rose from the seaport and was abloom with brightly painted shutters and doors decorating the stone and brick homes of sea captains, merchants and their families. Casimir thought, perhaps the bright colors help the wives, sons and daughters endure the long separations from husband and father that a seaman’s life requires. At the foot of the hill, brusque and burly workers crowded the dock, rolling barrels of wine and rum, carrying sacks of dried jerky, hardtack, bread and bacon, and pushing carts loaded with hay across the pier to the loading ramp. Casimir briefly wondered, why hay, but soon forgot about it as he watched the bustling scene. From the many grunts and curses they uttered, he guessed the dock laborers were from different regions—Africa, Spain, France, and Holland. Aside from their belches, farts, and coarse gestures, the common thread among them seemed to be a diet rich in gin, rum, garlic, and onions. They fell back to allow him to pass but not far enough for him to avoid inhaling their foul smells. He hurried along the opening they made, taking in their slovenliness and gave them a disdainful look. Breaking free of the throng of workmen, he paused to again admire the emerald water at the shoreline. His thoughts turned to Franciszka. It was the color of her eyes. Eyes that, depending on her mood, could show warmth, humor, wisdom, or love. And love was what Franciszka was to Casimir, he had no other experience of romance and love and wanted none. Their hearts would always be together regardless of the distance that might separate them. A web of mixed feelings tormented him. Would she come to see him off? Could she, even if she wanted to? He desperately wanted to see her once more, for what could be the last time. Still he knew parting again, this time perhaps forever, would wound them both. And there was still, the unavoidable fact that Franciszka was married. His thoughts returned to the voyage. He knew little of America beyond what he had heard from Bazarek, the Turkish mercenary who had served with him. According to Bazarek, it was full of belligerent and illiterate criminals banished from their home countries. But for that matter, he too was banished from his homeland and he reasoned America must also have brave and civilized men like the U.S. Minister Benjamin Franklin, who was so gracious to him at Versailles, and the revered General George Washington. He admired brave and intelligent men and he was especially looking forward to meeting Washington, who like him, had repeatedly united and inspired untrained men to fight against a far larger and more disciplined army. Now here was a man and a cause he was more than willing to join. If only he could once again have troops of his own to command. He continued to reflect on his future in America and his past in Poland. America will be so new and strange, so different from my Poland. But I can’t turn back. I have no place to go. I must prove myself and restore my family’s name. What will it be like not to understand the language? How will I communicate? If only Father were here to advise me. The memory of his father dying alone in a Turkish prison, perhaps even killed by the Turkish guards, and the fact that he could not bring his body home for a proper Catholic burial haunted him. Father deserved an honored spot at Jasna Gora Monastery or the church at Warka, not on Turkish soil. Casimir who adored his brother Frank almost as much as his father, knew he had tried. Frank had negotiated the release of their father’s body and started home with it. But he had encountered enemy forces at the Polish border. Alone, without troops, he couldn’t break through and was forced to bury their devout Catholic father in an unmarked grave in a Muslim land. His torment continued as he thought how Frank died rushing to protect him, I couldn’t save him! And the location of our father’s grave died with him. A large wave broke ashore, interrupting the calm and his reflections of the past and Poland. His thoughts returned to his future in America. I have no family and no friends in America, not even a reliable horse. Oh, I had such fine horses in Poland, and how I miss them. Without a great mount, how can I prove myself? I have so many challenges confronting me. I will probably never see Franciszka again, he thought sadly. She is more than the love of my life. She mentored me in the arts and history at Courland, helped me reconcile with the Bar Confederate leaders, counselled me to build diplomatic relationships with European monarchs, and was my comforter after the slaughter of so many innocents at Jasna Gora. She has helped me in happy and harsh times. I will be lost without her. And how will I keep my secret? In childhood, I believed it made me special—smarter and stronger. When boys laughed at me, I proved I was superior by throwing them to the ground and pummeling them until they begged for mercy. He remembered how convincing others that his body gave him extraordinary strength and intellect ended abruptly in a French prison. A hellhole. Even though I am tougher and more agile than most, neither I nor even Hercules could have subdued the eight brutes who stripped and ridiculed me. If America is the rough place I’ve heard, I must be discreet. He had heard that not so long ago, people in New England thought to be different were accused of being the Devil’s disciples and were burned at the stake or drowned. What if my anatomy is judged to be the curse of Satan? What would they do to me? He knew it would be especially difficult on board the ship, but he was confident he would find a way to conceal his secret, just as he’d done most of his life. Soon, I will be totally alone for the first time in my life, he realized. Even in prison and during exile I had some of my officers with me. But, there is nothing left for me in Poland or even Europe. His experience in France certainly was not kind. He could still smell the stench of the overflowing privy buckets and taste the maggot-filled gruel he and rapists and murderers fought over. He heard their guffaws and felt their rough hands as they stripped him, and violated his officers. No, he thought, my future is in America. He turned into the wind and the ocean breeze felt gentle and warm. But it didn’t relax him. He had heard far too many stories of violent storms tearing ships apart or driving them onto rocky shores, drowning all on board. On his way from Versailles, he had stopped to pray in the great cathedrals at Nantes and Le Croisic. Both held special prayer services for the sailors and fishermen of the parish. Tiny wooden sailing ships hung on each side of the altar as a reminder of how small any vessel is on the vast ocean. And the stormy scene in the painting lingered. A sense of foreboding came over him and he thought, As I step off these planks spanning from firm land to tossing ship, I will be stepping from the world I know to one completely foreign. I have no assurance that I will survive the crossing to reach that distant shore, or be any more welcome there than I was in Turkey and France following...