By Frederick Woodward

Heroism, by nature, tends toward a tragic dichotomy. All throughout human memory, the pattern has remained relatively fixed. A man attains popular immortality, or else he is forgotten a few generations after he dies. The two conditions are not mutually exclusive — one can precede, or follow the other. Popularized, forgotten, redeemed again — these words sum up the cycle of virtually any culture’s heroic memory. To be remembered, though, one must be first spoken of. It is this observation which forms the framework for the telling of this story. But first let me explain why I tell it.

To be remembered, though, one must be first spoken of.

There’s an interesting turn of phrase that one hears on occasion in various Polish-Catholic settings for which there isn’t an exact English translation: Bohaterowie dwóch narodów. Translated loosely, it means heroes of two nations. As it turns out, this epigraph refers to a small cadre of brave Polish-Catholic men who came from their native soil to the shores of America to help our country win its war of independence. The first time I heard this phrase, I was sitting around a table with some Polish-American Army veterans in the basement of a church in Detroit. I was listening to them recount their stories and the proud tales of their mother country. When I asked what the unfamiliar phrase meant, one of the gentlemen turned to me directly and explained: “It’s a common saying back in Poland,” he said. “It references the Polish Americans who fought to make America free.” 

Bohaterowie dwóch narodów. Translated loosely, it means heroes of two nations

I was shocked to hear this. I had never heard this facet of our founding history before, and I was intrigued. The man, a burly Vietnam veteran who introduced himself to me as Patrick, went on to give me a long and detailed explanation, which only served to pique my interest further. We stayed in touch after dinner that night, and met up soon after to discuss further. It turned out that in addition to being a former combat engineer with the U.S. Army, Patrick was also an archival historian and the former curator of a Detroit-area military history museum. At the end of our discussion, he turned to me and looked me in the eye. 

“It’s a shame that people don’t know more about these stories,” he said. “They’re perhaps the most forgotten piece of our Revolutionary-era history.” 

“They’re perhaps the most forgotten piece of our Revolutionary-era history.”

This piece then, is a modest attempt to honor these forgotten men and their contributions to America, in the hopes that in our present era, we might, as Patrick put it to me, “regain some important long-forgotten insights from their legacy.”

Two names emerge in especially stark relief from this darkly illuminated corner of history: Thaddeus Kościuszko and Casimir Pułaski, who have been likened by popular historians to a pair of bookends.

 “These two,” Patrick told me, referencing Kościuszko and Pułaski, “were the two opposite sides of the Polish-Catholic experience in the revolutionary war, and the Polish psyche in general.” 

Pułaski was the firebrand, a manic military leader who thrived leading charges through the thick of battle. Kościuszko was melancholic by contrast–a quiet and depressive genius whose best strategies were the result of hours of silent thought. Together, as Patrick explained to me, the two men encompassed the primary tendencies of the Polish man: mercurial and stoic, given both to war and reflection. 

The story of Thaddeus Kościuszko begins, ironically enough, not in Poland but in Lithuania. At the time of his birth, Poland was a subjugated country. Brought under Russian control by Peter the Great a century before, Poland as well as neighboring Lithuania forged a close bond, and many of their inhabitants intermarried. Kościuszko’s family was of minor Polish nobility—essentially equivalent to the modern middle class, but with far more pride and honor in heritage than one typically finds in Suburban America. 

As was common-practice at the time, Kościuszko’s family enrolled him and his older brother, Josef, in a Catholic school—a boys’ college run by the Piarist fathers. However, with the death of their father, Thaddeus and Josef were forced to drop out due to financial constraints and became caught up in a scheme to overthrow the Russian government occupying Poland at the time. Josef ended up in a position of leadership in the Bar Confederation, an alliance of Catholic clergy and noblemen who sought to overthrow the Russian-backed King Stanislaus and institute a free government over Poland. Thaddeus attempted to chart a more neutral course, eventually accepting a royal scholarship to pursue architectural and military studies in Catholic France, a Polish ally at the time. 

It was in France that Kościuszko gained a degree of notoriety for his skill and caught the attention of Silas Deane, a recruiter working on behalf of Benjamin Franklin to secure capital in France for America’s war of independence. Through mutual contacts, Franklin was introduced to Kościuszko and was immediately intrigued by the young Pole, who carried in him a shared sense of justice and revolutionary fervor. Later in 1776, Franklin arranged for him and a handful of other French officers to accompany a shipload of arms donated by Catholic Spain back to Philadelphia. 

Upon Kościuszko’s arrival, Franklin procured military engineering tests for him from the Continental Congress. Kościuszko passed these tests with flying colors, earning a prompt offer of commission in the Continental army as a Colonel only a few weeks after he stepped foot in Philadelphia.

Prior to Kościuszko’s arrival, the colonial forces were reeling from a string of losses, culminating in General Washington and his forces being forced to retreat back across the Delaware into Pennsylvania after defeats in New York and New Jersey. Kościuszko found himself attached to the entourage of General Horatio Gates, the new leader of the Northern division of the Continental Army. There, under the threat of imminent attack from British forces amassed close-by, Kościuszko headed up the construction of a battery of fortifications, each armed with a cannon and hundreds of Colonial snipers, atop the Bemis heights at Saratoga. 

Shortly thereafter, the British army did indeed attack, assaulting the fortified flank of the Colonial Army numerous times, but found themselves unable to overcome Kościuszko’s battlements. British military historians remarked later that Kościuszko’s design was “a stronghold which resembled a citadel rather than a temporary field work.” This was something of an unpleasant surprise for the British forces, who were used to confronting earthworks hastily-constructed by a primarily guerilla-style force, rather than the superior European designs of Col. Kościuszko, and it became a key contributor to their surrender soon after. 

After proving his worth at Saratoga, Kościuszko was then sent to the bank of the Hudson River, with orders to devise a plan to hold West Point Fort from capture by the enormous British naval attachment gathering there. Kościuszko’s military designs thwarted British plans to retake the very fortifications that Benedict Arnold had attempted to cede to them nearly two years before, and single-handedly prevented the southern end of America from invasion by British naval forces, stymying a key element of Britain’s war plan. 

Seeing Kościuszko’s talent, General Washington approached him with a personal offer: a promotion to Brigadier General, and a transfer to the Southern division of the Colonial army. There Kościuszko would work under commander Nathaniel Green to effectuate some manner of  victory to rally the troops, and revitalize popular support for the war effort. Kościuszko happily accepted and soon found himself in the thick of the fighting. 

Here, he was instrumental in using a previously unutilized local technology — flat bottom boats — to beat British forces under the command of General Cornwallis to Guilford Courthouse, the site of the first notable American victory in the South. Here, Cornwallis’ forces saw more than a quarter of their men wiped out, while Kościuszko took a contingent of men and traveled on ahead to the next location: Yorktown, Virginia, where he and his men constructed perhaps the most elaborate fortifications of the war, making possible General Washington’s victorious siege, and the subsequent Colonial victory. 

After the war, Kościuszko remained in America for several years, acquainting himself with the new American “aristocracy.” He befriended Thomas Jefferson, in addition to his already close ties with Washington and Franklin, and became a voice for Polish and Catholic considerations in the early deliberations of the new American Republic. He accepted invitations from Washington and his old commanding officer Nathaniel Green to join the Society of the Cincinnati and the American Philosophical Society, but eschewed more dignified honors, believing himself not worthy to be awarded such recognitions above the average soldier who had fought on the front lines. 

Soon after, Kościuszko learned of another revolutionary effort being undertaken against the Russians in his native Poland, and he quickly departed America to take part, hoping to bring what he had learned in the American Revolutionary war to bear on his homeland’s fight for independence. Unfortunately, his recommendations were not heeded, and the revolutionary effort was stifled rather quickly. 

Undeterred, Kościuszko attempted to lead a militia-style uprising in Krakow, an event known to history as the Kościuszko Uprising of 1794. Personally leading an army of farm-laborers, Kościuszko mounted a rout of Russian forces in the city. However, the newly-secular France, having previously promised support, now retracted their offer, leaving Kościuszko and his men in a precarious position. Russian forces placed a death-price upon his head and Prussian forces forged an alliance with Russia, coalescing to crush the rebellion and obliterate over 20,000 Warsaw city residents. Kościuszko himself was wounded and captured leading a charge against the Russians. From under an armed guard, he was forced to observe the last few months of Poland’s existence, as the institutions and external identity of his people were ground into the black earth by the combined pressure of Russian and Prussian occupiers, not to emerge again for more than a century.

Kościuszko’s story, however, didn’t end there. Following the death of Russian Empress Catherine the Great, Kościuszko found himself freed along with a host of other Polish political prisoners, thanks to the animosity that Catherine’s successor, Tsar Paul I, had towards all of her administrative actions. 

Wasting no time, Kościuszko returned to America, landing in Philadelphia in August of 1797. However, his time in America was brief. A few months after his arrival, he obtained a passport bearing a fictitious identity from Vice-President Thomas Jefferson and departed the country under the cover of night. His aim was to travel back to France and lead a contingent of Polish troops that had just formed under Napoleon’s flag, against the Russians. 

Kościuszko remained involved with the Polish freedom effort until his death several years later, attempting to forge alliances and broker peace deals with Napoleon and Russian Tsar Alexander I multiple times. His efforts were not crowned with resounding success during his lifetime, but historians argue that his impact was felt both in the favorable conditions which the Polish people were granted back in occupied Poland, as well as in the social fabric of America.

In his last will and testament, Kościuszko stipulated that every penny of the back-pay which he had received from his time serving in the Continental Army, as well as the value of the 500 acres of land he had been awarded in Ohio, be allocated to buy the freedom of slaves in America, particularly those held at that time by Thomas Jefferson, whom Kościuszko named as executor of his estate. 

Not content with a merely blind emancipation, Kościuszko specified that the freed slaves be given an “education in trades or otherwise and… instructed for their new condition in the duties of morality which may make them good neighbors, good fathers or mothers, husbands or wives and… citizens, teaching them to be defenders of their Liberty and Country and of the good order of Society and in whatsoever may make them happy and useful.”

Kościuszko’s contributions to American freedom and ideals, in addition to the influence that he played in securing relative freedom and respect for his oppressed countrymen in Poland truly make him one of the few Bohaterowie dwóch narodów — one of only a handful of those heroes of two nations. 

As an epigraph to this retelling of Kościuszko’s life, let me leave you with a final story that Patrick told me, regarding one of Kościuszko’s most prized possessions. Throughout nearly all of his military campaigns, Kościuszko carried at his side an unusual weapon: an old Spanish cavalry saber. Hagiographies differ as to the origin and history of the weapon itself, with some saying it was after a design beloved by El Cid, others proclaiming it to be a relic of Spanish conquistadors in the New World. Regardless, one of Kościuszko’s most formative mottos appears on the blade of the sword to this day: “Do not draw me without reason; do not sheathe me without honor.”  These are fitting words to memorialize one of the most forgotten heroes of our country’s revolution, and they hold true value for any man wishing to follow in his footsteps. 

Ironically enough, by way of direct contrast, Casimir Michael Pułaski, that relentless man of action, was quite possibly the most colorful and yet still forgotten character of the American Revolution. Hailed as “the Father of the American Cavalry” by George Washington, Pułaski’s influence cannot be understated. Less than a year older than his quieter counterpart, Kościuszko, Pułaski’s life nonetheless mirrored his countryman’s in several ways. 

A Lithuanian-Polish man by blood, Pułaski grew up in an upper-middle class family and developed a strong interest in politics. Desiring to aid in freeing his homeland, which was at that time subjugated beneath the Russian Empire, he experimented with politics before turning to the art of combat, rising through the ranks of a Polish nationalist force called the Bar Confederation, an alliance of Catholic clerics and Polish nobility who sought to overthrow Russian-backed King Stanislaus I and institute a free Polish national government again.

A fearless and skillful warrior, Pułaski quickly became one of the most prominent battlefield commanders in the Confederation. Regretfully, however, the rebellion was not fated to succeed, and as the fighting drew to a close, Pułaski was forced to relocate, or risk punishment by death in his home country. Choosing to travel to Catholic France, he landed at Marseilles in 1775. His reputation as an organizer and a leader preceded him, and he was approached soon after his arrival by Benjamin Franklin and the Marquis de Lafayette, who welcomed him and offered him a position in the American Revolutionary Force. 

Franklin in particular was impressed. Writing in his letter of recommendation and introduction, he stated, “Count Pułaski of Poland [is] an officer famous throughout Europe for his bravery and conduct in defence of the liberties of his country against the three great invading powers of Russia, Austria and Prussia… [he] may be highly useful to our service.” Pułaski for his part was more than eager to attach himself to the American cause. In a well-received letter to George Washington sent upon his arrival in Massachusetts, Pułaski declared, “I came here, where freedom is being defended, to serve it, and to live or die for it.” 

It was fortuitous that Pułaski connected so quickly with Washington. Despite Franklin’s elaborate recommendation, the Continental Congress hesitated to offer Pułaski a commission in the Continental Army, fearing his fiery temperament. When Washington learned of this, he berated the Congress in a hasty communication, assuring them of Pułaski’s dependability, and demanded that they offer him a commission at once. 

Washington soon found himself more grateful than he anticipated for this. Before Pułaski had even been sworn in as an officer, Washington requested that the Polish horseman travel with him as an unpaid special adviser. The first conflict that the pair witnessed was at Brandywine. Under a pressing British assault, Washington’s tired and hungry men began to yield. Planning to begin a slow retreat as dusk fell, Washington was unaware that a second British force was preparing an ambush to cut off his path to retreat and capture or kill him. Pułaski, who was out on a cavalry reconnaissance with a contingent of about 30 men, encountered the British forces beginning to dig in. Sending word to Washington, Pułaski collected as many of the beleaguered Americans as he could find and mounted a supper-time charge that caught the unaware British off-guard, punching a hole through the planned ambush, and allowing Washington and his entourage to escape – a feat which earned him instant fame across America and the gratitude of Washington, who believed that his life had been spared as a result. A Joint Resolution passed by Congress decades later bears witness to this, declaring that by saving Washington’s life, Pułaski had merited to receive a conferral of posthumous honorary citizenship.

As a token of his gratitude, Washington ordered that Pułaski’s commission be elevated several ranks, with the result that the first position that Pułaski was given was that of Brigadier General, a title which had taken Kościuszko a significantly longer time to obtain. Impressed by Pułaski’s martial vision as well as his bravery in combat, Washington entrusted the fiery Pole with command over the combined cavalry forces of the Continental Army. 

The state of the American cavalry when Pułaski assumed control was unimpressive. The total number of men was barely a few hundred, with even fewer horses. At that time, the U.S. cavalry was primarily seen as a force for reconnaissance and parades, rather than to charge and lead on the battlefield. Pułaski, however, had different ideas. 

Arriving in Trenton, where the majority of his men were stationed, Pułaski began reforming operations immediately. With a code of honor, a regulation manual, and then drilling his men endless drilling, Pułaski began to implement his vision of an offense-based cavalry corps: a force which could lead foot soldiers into battle, outrun enemy artillery spotters, and disrupt British field operations faster than their chain of command could react. 

Pułaski’s initial success was limited. Hampered by a poor command of English, the envious attitudes of a score of subordinate officers who had hoped to receive the position Pułaski was catapulted to, and minimal funding, the first eight months of his command were slow and difficult. Frustrated by this, Pułaski wrote a letter to commanding officer Horatio Gates, threatening to resign his position if circumstances did not improve.      

At this news, the Continental Congress stepped promptly into action. Renewing their approval of Pułaski’s rank of Brigadier General, they conferred upon him an additional signifier of honor: the title of “Commander of the Horse.” Additionally, at the recommendation of Gates, the Congress also authorized formation of new cavalry, artillery, and infantry units to be attached to Pułaski’s command. 

Grateful but not satisfied, Pułaski resumed command, but continued to add to his ranks. Selling his lands in Poland, he personally financed commissions under his command for scores of colorful Catholic European Nobles from Austria-Hungary, Poland, and elsewhere. Popularly hailed as “Pułaski’s Legion,” his unit quickly gained notoriety not only for its unique composition, but its skill and discipline under Pułaski’s guiding hand. Major-General Charles Lee in particular praised Pułaski’s Legion highly, inspiring Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to later capture in verse his impression of the Legion’s glory. 

Washington, seeing the strength and discipline of Pułaski’s Legion, ordered them to the frontlines shortly after a young Hungarian military officer named Michael de Kovats joined them. Pułaski and de Kovats, formerly acquaintances through the Bar Confederation, quickly bonded during travel to Washington’s new assignment for the Legion in South Carolina, and upon arrival, Pułaski made clear to Washington that de Kovats should assume command of the Legion if he were killed in action. 

Arriving outside of British-occupied Charleston, Pułaski and the Legion immediately set to work, probing the city’s defenses and engaging in a number of small skirmishes with British sentries outside the city walls. During one of these scouting expeditions, Pułaski noticed British troops preparing to advance upon the much-smaller American encampment. Faced with a tough decision, Pułaski decided to send a few men back to warn the camp, while he marshalled the remainder of his men around him and charged straight into the British camp. The surprised British forces panicked, and although carried out by a Legion only a fraction of the size of their encampment, Pułaski’s daring charge helped persuade British Commander Augustine Prevost to gather his men and retreat to Savannah that night. 

Bolstered by a fresh contingent of American troops under the command of General Benjamin Lincoln, head of the Southern Armies, Pułaski and his men embarked on a pursuit of the British forces, arriving at Savannah within a few days after the British arrival, and assuming siege positions almost immediately. 

Recognized by General Lincoln for his bravery in leading the noble charge that so disrupted the British advance, Pułaski was placed in command of a contingent of French Cavalry which Lincoln had brought with him to the siege of Savannah, in addition to his already sizable command. On October 9 of that year, Gen. Lincoln ordered a frontal assault on the city to be conducted by Pułaski’s legion in concert with a regiment headed up by the notorious Scotch swordsman and commander Lachlan McIntosh. The combined forces saw initial success with their early-morning attack. By mid-day, however, the fortunes began to change. The French cavalry, exhausted by the hot and muggy weather, began to fall back and retreat. Pułaski, seeing their fatigue, rode forward to rally them. Assuming a position in the front ranks, he was marshalling his men for a new charge, when he was struck fatally by a round of grapeshot to the abdomen. Lingering for a short time aboard the nearby privateer USS Wasp, Pułaski finally gave up the ghost, just months shy of his 35th birthday. 

His military legacy, however, did not end with his death. Pułaski’s Legion, commanded now by the brilliant young Hungarian Michael de Kovats, would go on to become a lynch–pin in Washington’s war effort, in addition to forming a key part of the American approach to cavalry formation and tactics, which would later become pivotally important during the subsequent Indian Wars. 

Relating more directly to the story of Pułaski and Kościuszko, however, Pułaski’s exploits on the battlefield cannot be underestimated for how much they increased appreciation among the largely Protestant Americans for the contributions of European Catholics in their fight for liberty against the British Crown. As Patrick, the Polish-Catholic historian told me, “it was due as much to Pułaski’s heroic exploits on the battlefield as it was to Kościuszko’s philosophical and political formulations, that anti-Catholic bias was reduced as much as it was in the colonies.” Before Catholic Europeans fought alongside American Colonists against Britain, it would have been unthinkable for members of the Continental Congress to gather in a Catholic Church dedicated to the Virgin Mary to sing the Te Deum with the French Ambassador in thanksgiving for the war’s successful conclusion. Yet, on November 4, 1781, that’s exactly what happened.          

Before Catholic Europeans fought alongside American Colonists against Britain, it would have been unthinkable for members of the Continental Congress to gather in a Catholic Church dedicated to the Virgin Mary to sing the Te Deum with the French Ambassador in thanksgiving for the war’s successful conclusion.

It is in this sense, as much if not more so than any other, that Pułaski and Kościuszko can be regarded as heroes of two nations. Not only did they fight for the independence of their home country and religion against the Russian occupiers in Poland, but they carried that same entwined fight here to America, fighting against a false religion and an oppressive crown, and continued to strive, even after war with England concluded, for the flourishing of these same prerogatives in a newly forming nation. This made them heroes in their own time, and, as America celebrates her 250th anniversary, this ought to compel us to laud them once again.

Frederick Woodward is a junior studying Political Economy, Journalism, and Finance