General Sumner ordered his corps to be under arms at one o'clock. As the firing grew loud, he moved his troops to the Chickahominy and waited for orders to cross. He commenced crossing at three o'clock, but the swamp was flooded, and it was only by great exertion and perseverance that he was able to get Kirby's battery to the south bank. Gorman's brigade led the column, composed of the First Minnesota, Fifteenth Massachusetts, Second New York Volunteers, and Thirty-Fourth New York,--Gorman joined General Couch. Kirby, with his six Napoleon guns, followed, and Dana's brigade closed the column, composed of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Massachusetts, Seventh Michigan, and Forty-Second New York. General Sumner rapidly formed his line, facing south. Whiting, up to this time, had been pressing straight on towards the Seven Pines. He turned to crush this new force which had appeared unexpectedly on his flank. It is a cloudy night and darkness is stealing on, as the Rebels change their front and move towards the north to sweep all before them. They advance across the field and through the woods, delivering a rapid fire. Suddenly there bursts a sheet of flame from Sumner's ranks. The Rebels fall back, rally their broken lines, advance again, nearer and with desperation. "Canister! Canister! Give them canister!" is Kirby's order as he moves from gun to gun. The battle-cloud grows thick beneath the heavy vapors rising from the swamp. Quick, incessant flashes momentarily light up the deepening darkness. It is not possible for men to face so terrible a storm. Vain are all the efforts of the Rebel officers to rally their bleeding ranks. Sumner has stood his ground. The time has come to advance. The Thirty-Fourth and Forty-Second New York, Fifteenth and Twentieth Massachusetts, and Seventh Michigan move forward. There are two fences in front of them, and beyond the farthest one is the Rebel line waiting their advance. The soldiers know that it will be the last march of many, but with a cheer heard above the roar of battle, they rush into the darkness, dash the fences under foot, and spring upon the enemy's lines. It is the work of a minute. One short struggle, a volley, a holding of the breath, muttered curses, shouts, groans, a clashing of bayonets, the trampling of ten thousand feet, and the field is clear of the enemy! General Johnston has failed in what he intended to accomplish. He is borne from the field at this hour, wounded by a shell from Kirby's battery. "As I rode down through the field," says a Rebel officer, "I met Franks, one of Longstreet's aides, looking as blue as indigo. What is the matter, Franks? Not satisfied with the day's work?" I inquired.