Part 12

“Oh, long life to your Excellency!” said she, “and never de ye mind them at all at all! Sure, and it is only in the artillery, your Excellency knows, that I would sarve, and divil a fear but the smoke of the cannon will hide my petticoats!”

_George Washington Parke Custis, and Other Sources_

THE SOLDIER BARON

_The good Baron found time to prepare a new code of discipline and tactics ... and this excellent manual held its place, long after the death of its author, as the Blue Book of our Army._

JOHN FISKE

While the ragged Patriot Army with Washington starved, froze, and suffered at Valley Forge, there was speeding down from Boston on a fast saddle-horse, a man who was to help them win the war.

His keen hazel eyes looked pleasantly out from under bushy brows. His mouth smiled with good cheer; but he held his head in military fashion. The glittering star of a foreign Order was on his breast, and he carried a letter of recommendation from Benjamin Franklin to George Washington, Commander-in-Chief of the American Army.

He was Baron Steuben, a famous soldier and German hero of the Seven Years’ War. He had offered his services to Washington to train the Army, explaining that he wished to deserve the title of a citizen of America, by fighting for her Liberty.

At his side rode his young and waggish French interpreter in scarlet regimentals faced with blue. His bright eyes were always on the watch for a glimpse of pretty American maidens. Behind the two came their servants with the baggage.

It began to snow heavily. Night fell. They drew rein at an inn. It had a bad name; and it was kept by a Tory.

“I’ve no beds, bread, meat, drink, milk, or eggs for you,” said the sullen Tory landlord.

And neither Steuben’s remonstrances nor oaths could make him change his mind.

Steuben’s blood began to boil. “Bring me my pistol!” he cried in German to his servant.

And the landlord, who was smiling maliciously, suddenly felt a pistol pressed against his breast.

“Can you give us beds?” shouted Steuben.

“Yes!” cried the affrighted man.

“Bread?”

“Yes!”

“Meat--drink--milk--eggs?”

“Yes!--yes!--yes!--yes!”

And the trembling landlord scurried around. The table was quickly laid, and food set out. Then after a substantial supper, a comfortable night and a hearty breakfast, the Baron and his men mounted and were off again.

To cut the story short, he was soon at Valley Forge, serving with Washington, and training the troops. They had had little expert military training before. The Baron drilled the soldiers himself. He took a musket in hand and showed them how to advance, retreat, or charge without falling into disorder.

Not only the soldiers, but the generals, colonels, and captains, watched him eagerly and with enthusiasm. Soon the camp was a bustling military training school. The men almost forgot their sufferings, so intent they were on learning. They worked incessantly and with tremendous energy.

But the Baron made it lively for them, for he had a quick temper. He swore at them in three languages; and, when they did not understand that, he called his aide to help him out in English.

Some of the men had thrown away their bayonets, and some had used them for roasting meat. But the Baron soon drilled them to use bayonets with such good effect that when later a column of them stormed Stony Point they took it in a bayonet charge.

He--the bluff Steuben--never failed in bravery on the battle-field. At Monmouth, while the American troops were fleeing in panic, the Baron kept doggedly on with his face to the foe. Meanwhile, Washington, furious and fiery, rallied the soldiers and led them back to victory. “It was now,” says John Fiske, “that the admirable results of Steuben’s teaching were to be seen. The retreating soldiers immediately wheeled and formed under fire, with as much coolness and precision as they could have shown on parade.”

Bluff, generous, kindly, old Steuben still served the Country after peace and Independence came. Then he settled down on his farm of sixteen thousand acres, the gift to him from the State of New York, in recognition of his patriotic services. “Throughout the war,” says John Fiske, “Steuben proved no less faithful than capable. He came to feel a genuine love for his adopted Country.”

FATHER THADDEUS

_Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciuszko fell!_

THOMAS CAMPBELL

“What do you wish to do?” said Washington.

The young Polish officer with a rugged face, held himself erect.

“I come,” answered he, “to fight as a volunteer for American Independence.”

“What can you do?” asked Washington.

“Try me!” said the young Pole, his dark eyes flashing pleasantly.

So Washington tried him.

He was Thaddeus Kosciuszko, born in Lithuania, and a Patriot of unhappy Poland.

Poor Poland! Dismembered, patriotic Poland! Again and again she had been betrayed, and divided by her greedy neighbours, Russia, Prussia, and Austria. But always the fires of Patriotism had burned in the hearts of the Poles, and though they had been forced to bow their necks to their enemies they had never bowed their hearts.

And it was a romantic story that had sent young Kosciuszko post-haste from Poland to America. He was poor but of good blood. He had fallen in love with a beautiful and clever Polish girl. Her father was a haughty, rich State official. He would not give his consent to their marriage. So the young lovers eloped. The father pursued them with his men. Kosciuszko fought like a lion to defend his beloved Ludwika. But her father’s men wounded him so severely that he fell senseless on the field. Then her father carried Ludwika home, and married her to another man.

When Kosciuszko came to his senses, his Love was gone. Her handkerchief stained with his own blood, lay beside him. He took it up reverently and placed it in his bosom.

Thus disappointed in love, he had left Poland and come to America to forget his grief in fighting for Freedom. For Kosciuszko had been a Patriot and a lover of Liberty for all men, since his early boyhood.

Washington placed him on his own staff. Soon he found that the young man had talent, and was an experienced army engineer. He commissioned him Chief Engineer. Kosciuszko rendered great service to America, but his most important work was on the defenses of West Point.

When our War for Independence was over, he returned to Poland. He became her leading Patriot, defending her against the invasions of Russia, Prussia, and Austria. “Father Thaddeus” his men called him, as he led them into battle.

During his famous defense of Warsaw, he was badly wounded on the battle-field, and captured by Cossacks. He was thrown into a Russian prison; and there he was kept until after the death of Catherine the Great.

He was released by the new Czar, who admired him, and wished to give him a brilliant commission in the Russian Army. But Kosciuszko refused his offer, and went into voluntary exile. He still hoped that some day again he might serve Poland.

His wounds were yet unhealed. There was a sabre-cut across his forehead. There were three bayonet-thrusts in his back. A part of his thigh had been torn away by a cannon ball. Around his forehead, he kept a black band tied over the sabre-cut.

He went into exile, and the people of Poland believed that he was dead.

* * * * *

It was nearly seventy-five years after that red-letter day in Lithuania, on which Thaddeus Kosciuszko had been born.

It was in 1814, France and Russia were at war. The Russian Army, as it advanced against Paris, was barbarously pillaging the valley of the Seine. The soldiers were burning the cottages of the poor peasants over their heads, and ill-treating the children, women, and aged folk.

Among the Russian troops was a Polish Regiment. And while its soldiers were savagely burning and looting the little houses, an old man with a scar across his forehead, rushed suddenly in among them.

Raging like a lion, he shouted in Polish:--

“When I commanded brave soldiers, they never pillaged--I should have punished them severely! And still more severely would I have punished officers who allowed such disorders as you are all now engaged in!”

“And who are you, my pretty old man,” cried the officers with sneers and laughter, “who are you that you dare to speak to us in such a tone, and with such boldness!”

“I am Kosciuszko,” was the quick reply.

Each man stood fixed to the spot. Each was paralyzed with astonishment.

There, before them with flashing eyes, stood Poland’s hero--the Polish soldiers’ “Father Thaddeus.”

Then the men threw down their arms to the ground. They cast themselves at his feet. They sprinkled dust upon their heads as was their wild custom at home. They crept close to him, hugging his knees and begging for his forgiveness--for the forgiveness of their “Father Thaddeus.”

* * * * *

When Kosciuszko died in Switzerland, in 1817, there was found in his bosom next his heart, the blood-stained handkerchief which his lost love Ludwika had dropped beside him, so long before.

To-day, in a little chapel at the foot of the lime-planted Hill, the Lindenhof, there is a bronze urn, in which lies the once brave heart of Thaddeus Kosciuszko.

THE LITTLE FRIEND IN FRONT STREET

_He entitled himself to the gratitude of the entire Country._

_Ex-President_ WILLIAM H. TAFT

He was only a little man in his office on Front Street, Philadelphia.

Only a little man--but how great! Without his help our War for Independence might have been lost. He helped to save the Country not with a sword, but by giving all the means that he had and expecting nothing in return.

This little man--his “little friend in Front Street,” as James Madison called him--was Haym Salomon, a Polish Jew and a Patriot.

Through Robert Morris, who was Superintendent of Finance, during the War for Independence, Haym Salomon loaned money to establish the Government and to pay the soldiers. Without his money, Washington could scarcely have held the Army together. And all the while, the little friend in Front Street was refusing any interest on his loans; and some of these loans were never repaid at all.

And he not only financed the Nation, but generously made personal advances of money without interest to members of the Government, in order that they might keep on in their patriotic work. “When any member was in need, all that was necessary was to call upon Salomon,” said James Madison.

But it was not only by financing our young Nation, that Haym Salomon showed his Patriotism.

He was born in Poland of an intelligent educated family. He knew many languages. He was a friend of Kosciuszko and Pulaski. Because of oppression, he left Poland and came to New York City. He married and settled down to business. He soon found, however, that the Americans were heavily oppressed by England. So he threw himself heart and soul into the cause for Independence.

He became a Patriot. He was arrested by the British, imprisoned, tortured, and condemned to death. He managed to escape, and reached Philadelphia safely. There he opened his broker’s office in Front Street. He became a great financier. Henceforward he unselfishly devoted his brains, his energy, and his wealth to help win the War for Independence and build up our Republic.

FAREWELL! MY GENERAL! FAREWELL!

_December 4, 1783_

The War for Independence was over.

Thursday the 4th of December was fixed upon for the final leave-taking of Washington with his officers.

This was the most trying event in his whole career, and he summoned all his self-command to meet it with composure.

Knox and Greene, and Hamilton and Steuben, and others assembled in Fraunces Tavern,[4] and waited with fast-beating hearts the arrival of their Chief.

Not a sound broke the silence as he entered, save the clatter of scabbards as the whole group rose to do him reverence. Casting his eye around, he saw the sad and mournful countenances of those who had been his companions-in-arms through the long years of darkness that had passed. Shoulder to shoulder, they had pressed by his side through the smoke of the conflict. He had heard their battle-shout answer his call in the hour of deepest peril, and seen them bear his standard triumphantly on to victory. Brave hearts were they all and true, on whom he had leaned and not in vain.

Advancing slowly to the table, Washington lifted the glass to his lips and said in a voice choked with emotion:--

“With a heart full of gratitude and love, I now take leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honourable.”

A mournful, profound silence followed this short address, when Knox advanced to say farewell. But neither could utter a word,--Knox reached forth his hand, while Washington, opening his arms, took him to his heart.

In silence, that was more eloquent than all language, each advanced in turn and was clasped in his embrace.

Washington dared not trust himself to speak, and looking a silent farewell, turned to the door. A corps of light infantry was drawn up on either side to receive him, and as he passed slowly through the lines, a gigantic soldier, who had moved beside him in the terrible march on Trenton, stepped from the ranks, and reaching out his arms, exclaimed:--

“Farewell! my dear General, farewell!”

Washington seized his hand in both of his and wrung it convulsively. In a moment all discipline was at an end; and the soldiers broke their order, and rushing around him, seized him by the hands, covering them with tears.

This was too much for even his strong nature, and as he moved away his broad chest heaved, and tears rolled unchecked down his face.

Passing on to Whitehall, he entered a barge, and as it moved out into the bay, he rose and waved a mute adieu to the noble band on shore.

The impressive scene was over.

_J. T. Headley_ (_Condensed_)

FROM “WASHINGTON’S LEGACY”

OR HIS LETTER TO THE GOVERNORS OF ALL THE STATES

I now make it my earnest prayer that God would have you, and the State over which you preside, in His holy protection; that He would incline the hearts of the Citizens to cultivate a spirit of subordination and obedience to government; to entertain a brotherly affection and love for one another, for their Fellow-citizens of the United States at large, and particularly for their brethren who have served in the field;--and finally that He would most graciously be pleased to dispose us all to do justice, to love mercy, and to demean ourselves with that charity, humility, and pacific temper of mind, which were the characteristics of the Divine Author of our blessed Religion, and without an humble imitation of whose example in these things, we can never hope to be a happy Nation.

GEORGE WASHINGTON

_8 June, 1783_

A KING OF MEN

Hand in hand with ... rare soundness of judgment there went a completeness of moral self-control which was all the more impressive inasmuch as Washington’s was by no means a tame or commonplace nature, such as ordinary power of will would suffice to guide.

He was a man of intense and fiery passions. His anger when once aroused had in it something so terrible, that strong men were cowed by it like frightened children. This prodigious animal nature was habitually curbed by a will of iron and held in the service of a sweet and tender soul, into which no mean or unworthy thought had ever entered.

Whole-souled devotion to public duty, an incorruptible integrity, which no appeal to ambition or vanity could for a moment solicit--these were attributes of Washington, as well marked as his clearness of mind and his strength of purpose.

And it was in no unworthy temple, that Nature had enshrined this great spirit. His lofty stature--exceeding six feet--his grave and handsome face, his noble bearing, and courtly grace of manner, all proclaimed in Washington a king of men.

_John Fiske_

WHEN WASHINGTON DIED

Crape enshrouded the Standards of France, and the Flags upon the victorious ships of England fell fluttering to half-mast at the tidings of his death.

_Chief Justice Fuller_

Let his countrymen consecrate the memory of the heroic General, the patriotic Statesman, and the virtuous sage. Let them teach their children never to forget that the fruits of his labours and his example, _are their inheritance_.

_The Senate of the United States, 1799_

_The following stories about Washington, and the War for Independence, may be found in “Good Stories for Great Holidays”: Three Old Tales (the Cherry-Tree Tale); Young George and the Colt; Washington the Athlete; Washington’s Modesty; Washington at Yorktown; Washington and the Cowards; Betsy Ross and the Flag; A Brave Girl (General Schuyler’s Daughter); A Gunpowder Story (Elizabeth Zane); The Declaration of Independence; Signing of the Declaration of Independence._

FEBRUARY 25

JOSE DE SAN MARTIN OF ARGENTINA THE PROTECTOR

_Jose de San Martin, a strong and silent man, whose character and achievements have been little known or appreciated outside his own country ... comes nearer than any one else to being the George Washington of Spanish America._

LORD BRYCE

San Martin, the great Liberator, loved men of audacity and courage. Besides, he was just and compassionate ... courteous to gentle and simple alike ... generous and brave San Martin.

JOSEPH CONRAD

_The white-souled San Martin who was without fear and almost without reproach._

WILLIAM SPENCE ROBERTSON

_The moral grandeur of San Martin consists in this: that nothing is known of the secret ambitions of his life; that he was in everything disinterested; that he confined himself strictly to his mission; and that he died in silence, showing neither weakness, pride, nor bitterness at seeing his work triumphant and his part in it forgotten._

BARTOLOME MITRE

SAN MARTIN was born in Spanish America, February 25, 1778

Became the Liberator of Argentina, 1812

Was the Hannibal of the Andes, 1817

He and O’Higgins liberated Chile, 1817-20

San Martin resigned after the meeting with Bolivar, 1822

In voluntary exile, he died at the age of 72, August 17, 1850

His body was brought in state to Argentina, 1880

He is called Protector of Peru

His name is pronounced--Hosay de San Marteen

THE BOY SOLDIER

This boy soldier, who became a great general and American Patriot, was born in the Indian village of Yapeyu, in the district of Misiones, which is now a part of Argentina.

Misiones is a land of thousands of bright butterflies and brilliant flowers, of plantations and wide forests. In it are abandoned groves of wild oranges and lemons, once belonging to the Jesuit Missions, that gave the name of Misiones to the region.

Though he was born among Indians, the boy soldier was not an Indian. He was of pure Spanish blood. His father was an officer of the Spanish Crown, and was Governor of Misiones. Spain ruled all Spanish America in those days.

The boy soldier’s name was Jose de San Martin. Jose, is Spanish for Joseph.

It was an exciting life for Jose, with Indian boys to show him how to shoot wild game, and how to fish in the Uruguay River. Then, there were his father’s soldiers to tell him about military life.

Before Jose was eight years old, his father was transferred, and the boy was sent overseas to Spain to attend school in Madrid.

But such an active American boy, accustomed to Indians and frontier life, could not stay long contented in a school in old Madrid. Besides, he had soldiers’ blood in his veins. He grew restless. He was only eleven; but he petitioned the Spanish Government to be allowed to enlist in the army.

His petition was granted, and he became a boy soldier.

His uniform was white and blue. His first campaign was in Africa. His first battle was with the Moors.

During the next few years he served so gallantly, that at sixteen he was made a lieutenant. So he became a boy officer.

THE PATRIOT WHO KEPT FAITH

In romantic Spain, there was everything to entice young San Martin to forget his native land so far away, and the little Indian village on the Uruguay.

The crimson and gold banners of Spain waved over victorious battle-fields, the drums beat triumphantly, the trumpets sounded to the charge. There was glamour of combat with Moors and other brave enemies. There were romances of knights and ladies, and legends of Aragon, Castile, and the Alhambra. There were serenades, _fandangos_, and feasts. While in the quaint Spanish towns, maidens with dark witching eyes half hidden by mantillas, peeped through the latticed casements. And they must have peeped out joyously whenever the stalwart, handsome, young San Martin went by.

But he never forgot his native land.

As the years passed, he kept deep in his mind the memories of his childhood. He heard that some of his countrymen in Argentina had formed a Patriot Army, and were trying to gain their independence from Spanish rule. He learned of their unsuccessful attempts and of their sufferings.

San Martin heard, too, that the English Colonies of North America had cast off the rule of their mother-country, England, and had established a free government of the People under a Constitution.

Meanwhile, Napoleon Bonaparte was throwing Europe into confusion, pulling down Kings from their thrones, and setting up whomsoever he wished in their stead. He forced the King of Spain to abdicate, and proclaimed his own brother Joseph Bonaparte, King of Spain.

Now the Spanish-American Colonies were the property of the _Kings of Spain_, “the most precious jewel in their crown.” Some of the Colonists had remained loyal, but when they heard how their King had weakly abdicated many of them, in disgust, went over to the Patriots’ side.

It was then that San Martin, although he had opportunities for rising much higher in the Spanish Army, decided to return to Argentina.

He landed on Argentine soil, March 9, 1812.

As a little boy, he had left Argentina. Now he was returned as a man, offering her his sword, his life, his all. “Forsaking my fortunes and my hopes,” said San Martin later, “I desired only to sacrifice everything to promote the Liberty of my native land. I arrived at Buenos Aires in the beginning of 1812--thenceforward I consecrated myself to the cause of Spanish America.”

WHEN SAN MARTIN CAME

To-day, the Republic of Argentina is an immense rich land. It stretches from the Atlantic Coast westward nearly to the Pacific. Its broad _pampas_, or plains, roll almost from the very doors of the beautiful city of Buenos Aires to the foothills of the Andes Mountains. The mighty frozen peaks of the Andes form a wall between the two sister Republics, Argentina and Chile.

Though the breadth of Argentina is so great, its length is even more tremendous. North to South, the Republic stretches from tropic regions of intense heat to the far distant Patagonian land with its sheep-ranches, salt-licks, and arid plains, and still farther southward the Republic stretches toward the Antartic Circle.

The _pampas_ are like our prairies. On them herds of cattle graze; and the _gauchos_ Argentine cowboys, round up the cattle on the wealthy _estancias_ or ranches. On many of these ranches, grow wide acres of the finest wheat and of other grains.

And through the city of Buenos Aires, which has been called the “Paris of America,” pass shipments of beef and wheat to help feed the world. In the city’s roadstead, are ships from many countries waiting to carry away not only beef and grain, but hides, sugar, and other Argentine produce, as well as Patagonian mutton and wool.