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