Petersburg, Virginia
December 2, 1784
In 1784 Petersburg, Virginia was one of the largest towns in the country boasting a population of 2,600 men, women and children. Plantation owners and farmers brought their goods to the town market on a daily or biweekly basis to sell to those who lived in town as well as travelers moving along the Post Road or towards the coastal towns of Williamsburg, Norfolk, Hampton and Portsmouth.
Petersburg didn't have much in the way of static defenses. It really shouldn't have needed any. It's far enough from the frontier that Indians are unlikely to raid from the east. South of the town lay the North Carolina border. The north offered some protection in the form of the Appomattox River, but the town's designers never anticipated an attack from that direction. After all, why would British colonies fight each other?
Indeed.
Henry “Light Horse Harry” Lee, a blond haired, blue eyed man still approaching his thirtieth year, sat astride a black horse named Matilda, after his wife. Around him sat hundreds of other horsemen, the cream of the Virginia aristocracy for the most part, many dressed as if for a hunt. They quietly talked amongst themselves to dispel nerves as Lee swept the far shore with his spyglass. Yes, definitely American troops. Thousands of them.
There were three spots near here Arnold might use to cross the Appomattox. If he wanted to bring his artillery into North Carolina, he needed the Post Road. Two regiments of Virginian and Carolinan militia guarded the stone bridge, while another several companies positioned themselves on an island in the middle of the river to snipe at the invaders.
Left of the bridge lay two fords. The closer normally had a ferry service running between two relatively busy roads, but they'd sunk that the night before. A full regiment guarded that. Further to the west lay another ford between two hills. An infantry regiment and Lee's cavalry served as reserve, while artillery could lay waste to any Americans foolish enough to try and force the bridge.
“If all else fails, they can destroy the bridge,” Lee muttered. He turned to two excited, nervous youngsters who would relay his orders as the battle progressed. “All colonels: Do not fight unless they provoke us. If they do, then give them hell!”
*******
At about nine in the morning Benedict Arnold, at the head of a reserve infantry regiment and surrounded by horse pulling artillery wagons, ascended a gently sloped, but tall hill north of Petersburg proper. There he sat astride his horse and surveyed the 'enemy.'
His plan, assuming the Virginians didn't simply step aside (which would be much better for all concerned) involved storming the river bridge and a ford far west of town. He knew a ferry service ran between the two but, as expected, the ferry was nowhere in sight.
“Odd that they're still defending it,” he murmured, studying the regiment planted there.
Behind the main attack on the bridge sat another six regiments - the four Virginians under Colonel Kirkland, and two Massachusetts under General Lincoln. He didn't expect any trouble from Kirkland, but best to not make him choose sides.
“No one fires until I give the command!” he ordered the cannoneers. His infantry and cavalry were still too far away for him to worry about them causing mischief. “No. Stay. Let them realize we are serious about crossing.” He indicated the Virginian regiment guarding their destroyed ferry. “Target them and fire.”
Colonel Hutchins, his artillery commander, frowned. He was a big man, with a ruddy complexion ruined by numerous scars from a decade of war. “Aye, sir.” He saluted. “May I advise the general that at this range, we would be lucky indeed to hit anyone.”
“So much the better,” Arnold replied. “Perhaps they will see the futility of their situation and retire.”
9:00
*******
Colonel James Castor had no intent of retiring, though he did find the distant puffs of cannon disturbing enough to withdraw several hundred yards south with his men. It meant abandoning the ford where the ferry ran, but the Americans on the other side of the river seemed puzzled about how to cross and settled for an ineffective fire.
Petersburg was Castor's home town. He planned to defend it to the last. He didn't know what Arnold and his northerners were about, and he honestly didn't care.
“We will stand here unless it becomes clear Arnold is crossing in force,” he told his second, a kid really with the beginnings of his first beard. The major saluted and rode along the front line barking orders to the captains as the colonel watched another cannon ball land in the river.
Castor turned to the east as faint screams reached his ear. A Pennsylvania regiment mastered their fear and stormed the Post Road bridge, only to be cut down by artillery and gunfire by the defenders. He didn't know whether to admire their bravery or marvel at their foolishness: Storming a bridge meant the Pennsylvania colonel packed his men like sardines in a mad rush. Impossible for the Virginians and Carolinans to miss at that range, and with four 24 lb. guns adding their weight to the defense the bridge soon grew slick with blood, as the river flowing east darkened towards red.
He glanced west and cursed. The bloody fool who was meant to protect
his flank instead chose to cross the river himself and so harass the American right. Arnold was many despicable things, but he wasn't a fool and dispatched two regiments to hunt the one.
“Major!” He shouted until his adjutant showed. “Compliments to General Lee, and request permission to shift to the left flank. We can't do anything here anyway.”
*******
So many! Massed musket and artillery fire had butchered the better part of two regiments, but still the Americans tried to seize that damnable bridge! Worse, sheer mass began to tell in their favor. His men on the island had been forced back, while the Americans added a few companies of cavalry to the mad melee growing perilously close to the southern bank.
“Compliments to Colonel Banks,” he told one of the boys, pointing at his own artillery. “He is to continue targeting the Post Road. If they look to be crossing in force, he is to attempt to destroy the bridge.” Difficult, even with 24 lb. balls, but not impossible.
As predicted, the fools who'd broken formation on the Virginian left were swept up on the American side of the river and destroyed. Now they crossed in force, with Colonel Castor's men running to meet them. Worse, the Americans snooping around the ferry in the battle line's center seemed to finally figure out what they were about and began crossing in earnest.
I'm losing, Lee thought.
Still, I haven't lost yet.
*******
The Americans opened fire at two hundred yards. They'd secured Pennock Hill on the extreme left some miles outside town and fired murderously into Castor's ranks.
“Hold formation!” he shouted to any who cared to hear. “Don't charge! Not yet!” He rode in the center of the second rank, an obvious target to the distant musketeers. Shots whistled past his ears as they climbed. “Steady! Steady! Major! Double step!”
A series of trumpet blasts echoed up and down the Virginian line. Instantly the regiment grew more fluid, the lines of soldiers dressed in anything from American blue to farm clothes loosened as they doubled pace. No one fired, for the Virginians used older bayonets. They didn't lock around the barrel with thick metal rings, but instead actually fit inside the musket barrels blocking them.
At fifty yards the American fire slackened as men in clusters of two or three pulled bayonets from holsters at their back and began affixing them to their rifles. Castor smiled grimly. This would be his one chance.
“Major!
Charge!”
The American colonel was a booby. Somehow the charge caught him off guard, and he was slow to order his men to brace for the assault. Most looked up with only ten yards separating them from the shrieking Virginians, half with bayonets either loose or not affixed at all.
Castor's horse fell within the first few seconds, screaming and convulsing as an American thrust his bayonet, holding it like a sword, into the poor beast's chest. Castor leapt clear, somehow landed on his feet, and fired his pistol in a man's face.
That was the last thing he remembered for some time. Everything became confusion - Virginians and Northerners thrusting past him in opposite directions. Shouting, screaming and cursing filled the sky as the sheer mass of humanity pushing him from all directions blotted out all thought except survival.
He drew his sword and faced a small, agile man who somehow found room to dodge him in the swirling melee. The American responded with a classic bayonet thrust that nicked his ear. Castor punched the man with his hilt. The soldier reeled, but kicked Castor's legs out from under him as he spun away to join another melee. A Virginian tripped over him, cursed and kicked Castor blindly. He paid for his distraction with an American bayonet through the stomach.
The colonel regained his feet and slashed, ending another Northerner's career. Something hard smacked him in the back of the head. He reeled. When Castor's vision cleared he saw one of his bannermen thrusting into the thick of a mass melee, the Virginia flag waving proudly. On the other side of the maelstrom he saw the Massachusetts flag waver...and fall.
“Virginia!” he shouted. “Virginia!” Men took up his cry and soon the Massachusetts men fled across their ford.
*******
Benedict Arnold cursed as he watched his most successful advance to date demolished by Virginian berserkers. He no longer rode, but paced up and down with Colonel Hutchins with a savage expression. The longer this battle lasted, the more likely Virginia would be forced to declare by sheer number of casualties. The longer it lasted, the more likely his own advance would bog down in the face of mounting casualties.
Fighting continued on the American center and west. His remaining cavalry, a few hundred New Jersey dragoons, forced their way across the bridge but now fought a mad melee to maintain their bridgehead. If their cavalry commander committed...
Cannoneers shrieked in triumph around him. Men rose and pounded each other on the back, grinning like maniacs. “That'll show 'em!” one crowed.
“Serve the buggers!” agreed his mate.
“What's amiss?” Hutchins cried, taking a gunner's spyglass to look for himself. “Sir! The center's broken!”
“What!?” Arnold looked in that direction and...yes! A series of lucky cannon shots left deep furrows in the earth on the far side of the river, furrows overflowing with the blood of a very unlucky Virginian regiment. Their commander must have fallen, for despite a relatively small number of casualties the survivors fled southward with no cohesion whatsoever.
“They're as good as beaten!” Hutchins grinned.
Arnold grinned as well, a fierce, predatory smile. The bridge still remained, but now it was only a matter of time. “Message to General Lincoln,” he told one of his messengers. “Compliments, and let's end this charade.”
*******
“General Lincoln's compliments to Colonel Kirkland,” the boy piped. He pointed south where two Massachusetts regiments waited in reserve with their Virginian counterparts. “He requests, on behalf of General Arnold, that your command march south to help seize the bridge.”
Kirkland glared at the child. He was an honorable, prideful man and there was simply no way out that allowed for either. Following orders would mean helping to slaughter fellow Virginians. Following Horton's advice meant turning on men he fought with for most of his adult life. He believed God had a special part of hell reserved for traitors and turncoats.
And yet... Just where did loyalty lie? With a country that existed only on paper, or with his neighbors? He'd have been content to let the battle play out without him, using his men afterwards to protect the citizens against any obnoxious excess.
Kirkland spent the early morning talking over his options with the other majors. It took until after eight, indeed until after the regiments were deployed, for them to reach consensus.
“Sir?” asked the boy nervously. Kirkland's refusal to acknowledge the command worried him. The colonel's glare scared him more. He flinched as Kirkland's hand shot up over his head.
“Major Eastman!” he shouted. Once he had the distant horseman's attention: “Sound the signal!” To the boy: “You may tell General Lincoln....”
Trumpets blasted up and down Kirkland's regiments: Five short blasts, one long, then three more short. Slowly from left to right two score standard bearers let go of two score American flags. They fell to the packed earth of the Post Road leaving two score Virginian banners to fly alone.
“You may tell him that we decline the command.”
12:00
