Chapter 1061: The Battle of Zanjan
Saint Petersburg.
The Winter Palace.
Catherine II reclined on an exquisitely carved chair, her eyes flickering toward the British Foreign Secretary before she wearily extended a single finger.
Her failing health no longer permitted her to manage the daily affairs of state. Only an envoy from a Great Power like Britain could secure even a brief audience with her.
Standing beside her, Zubov immediately stepped forward to interpret her gesture. "Mr. Fox, Her Majesty believes that one month is more than enough time for your country to evacuate all its citizens from Tehran."
"No, as you well know, Persia is a land of endless mountains," Fox countered. "Furthermore, the chaos of war will inevitably hinder any travel. It will take at least three months to reach Ahvaz."
Catherine II waved her hand, her patience clearly wearing thin.
Zubov followed suit, his voice firm. "The matter is settled."
Fox frowned, his voice dropping an octave. "Your country's invasion of Persia has already begun to jeopardize our trade in the Persian Gulf. If any more British subjects lose their lives because of this war, I cannot guarantee that Parliament won't decide to intervene in the Persian situation."
Currently, Russia and France were in close cooperation, and the volume of trade between them was surging. The Central Asian theater also involved French interests—specifically, cotton.
All of this meant she was far less concerned with the British attitude than she had been in the past.
"Wait." Seeing the situation spiraling out of his control, Fox was forced to play his trump card. "I have heard that your country intends to expand cotton cultivation in Central Asia."
Thanks to the extensive network of Chappe optical signal towers already established across Prussia and Austria, he had received intelligence from Saint Petersburg while still en route.
An undertaking as massive as expansion in Central Asia was nearly impossible to hide from British spies.
Catherine II motioned for her servants to stop and looked at the Englishman with newfound interest.
Fox took a deep breath. "If you can grant our country sufficient time for evacuation and ensure that trade in the Persian Gulf remains undisturbed, my government can provide you with advanced textile technology."
The Tsarina's eyes instantly brightened.
Selling raw cotton was nowhere near as profitable as processing it into textiles themselves. As for the promise to sell Central Asian cotton to France? As long as the profit was high enough, such agreements could be 'forgotten' at any moment.
Hours later, having returned to his quarters, Fox signaled for his attendant to pour him a glass of wine. He wore a smug smile. 'These Russians have all their brains in their muscles,' he thought. 'A few simple tricks are all it takes to deceive them.'
Indeed, Britain had already decided to support Persia. Relations with Russia would soon deteriorate, making the promise of textile technology impossible to fulfill. But the Russians had always been remarkably susceptible to deception from the Great Powers of Europe.
Three months later.
Valerian Zubov peered through his telescope at the two European-style bastions protecting the outskirts of the Zanjan fortress, his brow furrowing slightly.
Such structures seemed out of place beside a Persian city.
However, he soon dismissed the thought with a smirk and turned to the adjutant beside him. "Order General Gazmanov to commence the assault."
He had been waiting idly in Tabriz for three and a half months on the Tsarina's orders and was long past the point of restlessness.
He was confident that against a mob of inferior Persians, his army would only need to fire a few volleys to send them into a panicked rout.
Just as Gudovich had done before him.
A staff officer nearby spoke up hurriedly. "Commander, our operational plan did not account for those two bastions. A direct assault could potentially..."
Valerian Zubov shot him a look of pure disdain. "Stow your cowardice. I intend to hold a military parade in Tehran next month. I have no time to waste here."
This time, he had left Gudovich behind in Tabriz to handle the defenses. No one would be able to snatch the glory of capturing Tehran from him now.
Soon, to the blare of bugles, the Russian artillery began pounding the newly constructed bastions.
An hour later, a massive formation of Russian infantry emerged from the smoke, surrounding the two bastions while elite storming parties launched a fierce assault.
Zubov watched the feeble Persian counterattack through his glass, his contempt growing. The Persians didn't even seem to have many muskets; most of the projectiles flying from the bastions were arrows. Their cannons were rudimentary at best, with a range barely exceeding that of a Russian flintlock musket.
He was already imagining the scene of the Tsarina personally welcoming him back and promoting him to the rank of Marshal.
As Zubov had expected, it took only three days for the Russian army to fight its way into the two new bastions.
Without a moment's hesitation, he ordered Gazmanov to press the advantage and seize the city of Zanjan in one fell swoop.
Gazmanov, equally exhilarated by the smooth progress of the battle, personally led over ten thousand Russian soldiers. They pursued the retreating Persian forces into the narrow gap between the two bastions, charging toward the walls of Zanjan.
However, the expected sight of panic-stricken Persian defenders atop the walls never materialized. Instead, he saw the Persian defensive lines outside the city standing in perfect, disciplined order.
The leading Russian elements were forced to slow down, but the men behind them continued to surge forward, causing the ranks to bunch up and stall outside Zanjan.
Atop the city walls, the Persian Commander-in-Chief, Abbas Mirza, watched the Russians enter his pre-designated kill zone. He lowered his telescope and signaled sharply to the messenger beside him.
"At once, Your Highness!"
The messenger turned and signaled to the flagman.
Minutes later, the thunderous roar of heavy artillery erupted from Gazmanov’s flanks.
Gazmanov’s heart sank. He could tell by the sound—these weren't primitive Persian pots. These were high-quality, professional cannons.
And there were at least twenty of them!
Before he could react, twenty-four-pound iron spheres came screaming through the air, tearing into the Russian ranks with a terrifying howl.
The air was instantly filled with agonizing screams and the sickening crunch of bone and tissue being pulverized by iron.
The Persian gunners might not have been master marksmen, but this area had been pre-sighted. Almost every shot found its mark.
A single volley from the twenty-four heavy guns wiped out nearly two hundred Russian soldiers.
As the flanking batteries continued their rhythmic bombardment, the Russian assault force, which had been so full of bravado moments ago, fell into utter chaos.
Because their advance had been so effortless until now, they had neglected their formations. Now, with ten thousand men crammed together, an orderly retreat was impossible.
Gazmanov personally led his guard to rally four squadrons of Cossack cavalry, attempting to charge the Persian battery positions. However, they were immediately met by over a thousand Persian heavy cavalrymen appearing in their path.
These Persian horsemen, who usually appeared clumsy when facing flintlock fire, charged like cornered tigers in a melee against the Cossacks.
The Cossack sabers struggled to bite into the heavy scale armor of their opponents, while the Persians struck back with ruthless efficiency, their blades hacking the Russian cavalry into a bloody rout in an instant.
Immediately afterward, the Persian infantry began to advance.
This time, they weren't carrying obsolete matchlock muskets or bows. They were armed with standardized Brown Bess flintlock muskets.
Every single one of them had been delivered to Persia by the British just two months ago.
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