rtant details of the main battle of Antietam, this
cavalry charge has been almost overlooked by the newspaper chroniclers;
and yet it is doubtful whether even the Galloping Second when they
dashed into Fairfax Court-House, or Zagonyi's "Body-Guard" and Frank
White's "Prairie Scouts," at Springfield, displayed more of the true
dash of this undervalued arm of the American service, than those two
squadrons of Pleasanton on the little plateau over Antietam Creek. The
rebels met them with fierce determination and the inspiring
consciousness of superior numbers, but nothing could break that headlong
charge. Scarcely a pistol-shot was fired, until the rebel ranks were
completely broken. Like tongues of white flame those fierce blades rose
and fell, lopping arms, crashing through brains and emptying saddles;
and scarce once that they rose without some new stain caught from the
reeking life-blood. Poor little Mary Crawford's sword, before so bright
and spotless, caught terrible flames of red in its course, as the
Captain sped onward at the head of his destroying angels; and it was
only when the rebels wore completely broken and in full flight, and the
Union cavalry wheeling to rejoin the main body with their sadly
diminished number, that the blade so bloodily baptized grew still.

Crawford, at the very head of the charge, had passed beyond many of the
rebel horsemen, now flying fugitives; and as he turned to ride back,
drawing a long breath of exhaustion and relief, two or three of the
escaping rebels dashed towards him. He raised his sword and spurred
forward, for the moment unconscious of personal danger at the moment of
victory. But at that instant the hand of one of the rebel horsemen
dropped to his holster--before the Union officer could meet the motion
there was a quick flash, a report, and the bullet struck him full in the
throat. One gasp, one convulsive spouting of blood from the great
arteries, in which the whole flood of life seemed to be discharging
itself--and he reeled in his saddle and fell headlong from the stirrup,
his eyes already glazing in death, and the stained sword of the Oneida
Valley falling useless from his stiffening right hand.

Let the Koran be true, for him at least. Let the death of a patriot
soldier on the battle-field, when striking for the perilled land at its
sorest need, be held to atone for much of wrong and error, and even
something of crime, in the past. And let us say of him, as the
maste