It was a life and death grapple for the mastery. Jackson's corps was now
in action. A desperate charge of Hood's division at last broke the Union
lines and the grey men swarmed over the Federal breastworks. The lines
broke and began to roll back toward the bridges of the Chickahominy. The
retreat threatened to become a rout. The twilight was deepening over the
field when a shout rose from the tangled masses of blue stragglers by
the bridge. Dashing through them came the swift fresh brigades of French
and Meager. General Meager, rising from his stirrups in his shirt
sleeves, swung his bare sword above his head, hurled his troops against
the advancing Confederate line and held it until darkness saved Porter's
division from ruin.
McClellan's one hope now was to pull his army out of the deadly swamps
in which he had been caught and save it from destruction. He must reach
the banks of the James and the shelter of his gunboats before he could
stop to breathe. At every step the charging grey lines crashed on his
rear guard. Retreating day and night, turning and fighting as a hunted
stag, he was struggling only to escape.
That there was no panic, no rout, was a splendid tribute to his
organizing and commanding powers. His army was an army at last in fact
as well as in name--a compact and terrible fighting machine.
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