At Churubusco ended the spectacular career of the celebrated San Patricios battalion of Irish deserters, who deserted to the American army on the Canadian border and afterwards deserted to the Mexicans from the Texan border, fighting against the American in every Mexican war battle of consequence from Palo Alto to Churubusco. After capture the leaders and many of the men were court-martialed and shot; their commander, the notorious Thomas Riley, among the latter. The survivors were branded in the cheek with the letter "D" as a symbol of their treachery.

General Kearney resigned from the army in 1851 and made a tour of the world. He then went to France and fought in the war of that country against Italy. At Magenta, while he was leading the daring and hazardous charge that turned the situation and won Algiers to France, _he charged with the bridle in his teeth_.

For his bravery he received the Cross of the Legion of Honor, being the first American thus honored.

When the Civil War cloud burst, he came back to the United States and was made brigadier general in the Federal army and given the command of the First New Jersey Brigade.

His timely arrival at Williamsburg saved the day for the Federals.

In the engagement at Fair Oaks,

"Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,"

there was no charge like Kearney's.

"How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten, In the one hand still left,--and the reins in his teeth!"

General Oliver O. Howard lost his _right_ arm in this battle. When the amputation was taking place, he looked grimly up at General Kearney, who was present, and remarked, "We'll buy our gloves together, after this."

At Chantilly, a few days after the second battle of Bull Run, wherein he forced the gallant Stonewall Jackson back, he penetrated into the Confederate lines and met his death.

The Confederates had won. The dusk had fallen and General Kearney was reconnoitering after placing his division.

"He rode right into our men," feelingly relates a Confederate soldier, "then stopping suddenly, called out,

"'What troops are these?'"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "WHAT TROOPS ARE THESE?"]

Some one replied, "Hays' Mississippi Brigade."

He turned quickly in an attempt to escape. A shower of bullets fell about him. He leaned forward as if to protect himself, but a ball struck him in the spine. He reeled and fell.

Under the white flag of truce, General Lee sent his remains to General Hooker, who had the body transported to New York, where it was interred with becoming honors.

"Oh, evil the black shroud of night of Chantilly, That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried."

KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES

SO that soldierly legend is still on its journey,-- That story of Kearney who knew not how to yield!

'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney, Against twenty thousand he rallied the field.

Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine, Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,-- No charge like Phil Kearney's along the whole line.

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground He rode down the length of the withering column, And his heart at our war cry leapt up with a bound.

He snuffed like his charger, the wind of the powder,-- His sword waved us on and we answered the sign; Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder, "There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"

How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten, In the one hand still left,--and the reins in his teeth!

He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath.

Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, Asking where to go in,--through the clearing or pine?

"O, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel!

You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"

Oh, evil the black shroud of night of Chantilly, That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried!

Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride!

Yet we dream that he still,--in that shadowy region Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign,-- Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, And the word still is "Forward!" along the whole line.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

THE CAVALRY CHARGE

WITH bray of the trumpet And roll of the drum, And keen ring of bugle, The cavalry come.

Sharp clank the steel scabbards The bridle chains ring, And foam from red nostrils The wild chargers fling.

Tramp! tramp! o'er the greensward That quivers below, Scarce held by the curb bit The fierce horses go!

And the grim-visaged colonel, With ear-rending shout, Peals forth to the squadrons The order: "Trot out!"

One hand on the saber, And one on the rein, The troopers move forward In line on the plain.

As rings the word, "Gallop!"

The steel scabbards clank; As each rowel is pressed To a horse's hot flank; And swift is their rush And the wild torrents flow, When it pours from the crag On the valley below.

"Charge!" thunders the leader; Like shaft from the bow Each mad horse is hurled On the wavering foe.

A thousand bright sabers Are gleaming in air; A thousand dark horses Are dashed on the square.

Resistless and reckless Of aught may betide, Like demons, not mortals The wild troopers ride.

Cut right! and cut left!

For the parry who needs?

The bayonets shiver Like wind-scattered reeds.

Vain--vain the red volley That bursts from the square,-- The random-shot bullets Are wasted in air.

Triumphant, remorseless, Unerring as death,-- No saber that's stainless Returns to its sheath.

The wounds that are dealt By that murderous steel Will never yield case For the surgeon to heal.

Hurrah! they are broken-- Hurrah! boys, they fly!

None linger save those Who but linger to die.

Rein up your hot horses And call in your men,-- The trumpet sounds, "Rally To colors!" again.

Some saddles are empty, Some comrades are slain And some n.o.ble horses Lie stark on the plain: But war's a chance game, boys, And weeping is vain.

FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.