But they found brave men ready to repel their assault. The Chickahominy had swollen to such a height that bridges were carried away in its mad rush. General McClellan had thrown the left wing of his forces across the stream, but it was impossible to get reinforcements to their help.
Both sides showed unexampled bravery. General Johnston moved on toward Richmond, six miles away, where he halted, for the purpose of striking the detached wing of the Union forces. The rise of the river had hampered the movements of the latter, and it seemed as if capture was certain.
The half-finished redoubts had been occupied by General Casey's division of Keys' corps, and although they rallied several times, it was in vain. The rebels, made a detour, and stole upon their rear, and they could no longer hold them. Their line was in danger.
Meanwhile General Johnston's evident intention was to bring up a heavy flanking force between General Casey and the river whose banks had risen so unluckily for the Federals, cutting off all hopes of reinforcements.
And now a magnificent exhibition of courage was shown by Sumner. He expected orders to go to the rescue, and his men were drawn up in line ready for the summons. One bridge alone remained with which to cross the river, and its approaches were under water. Some of its supports were gone, and as the soldiers stepped upon it, the frail structure swayed to and fro, mid the rushing waters, but they passed over as speedily and safely as though it were a solid piece of masonry.
General Sumner's appearance was most opportune. He met the flank attack, and was victorious. The slaughter was fearful. In this battle 12,000 men gave up their lives—5,000 Northern men, and 7,000 Southern.
General Johnston fell, a Federal shot having taken effect. He was carried off the field, and at first it was feared by the Confederates that his wound was mortal, but after some months of suffering and enforced retirement he recovered, and a year after assumed command of the Confederate forces of the Mississippi.
Ralph was sent with one of the details to bury the dead and bring in the wounded. Trenches were dug, and the dead piled in them. Many were left where the last shot had struck them down, and earth was heaped upon them. The ground was literally blood-soaked. The dead were everywhere—the battle-field was one vast graveyard, with its tenants left unburied.
Ralph entered a little log house in a pasture near the railroad, and seated himself on a bench for a moment's rest. Just outside the door, he found the dead and the wounded packed so close that he could scarcely avoid stepping on them. To distinguish them was a hard task, for the wounded lay there so quiet and motionless, fast in that silent resignation born of despair, that, save for the dull blackness that covered the faces of those from whom life had fled, it would be easy to mistake the living for the dead.