Chapter 1472: Fighting the Bitter Cold, Part One
Smolens Town, north of Smolensk.
Prince Bagration brushed the frost from his mustache and shouted to the Cossack Cavalry Battalion commander, "Have you found them?"
The commander's voice drifted through the swirling snow. "Not yet, General. This cursed snow has buried every trace of the Poles' tracks."
"Broaden the search! With snow this heavy, they couldn't have gone far!"
The Georgian prince frowned as he gazed out at the white expanse before him.
The Polish rear guard had suddenly abandoned the Yartsevo Crossing, leaving him in a tactical dilemma. According to reports from the General Headquarters, the Polish vanguard had already retreated. This meant their rear guard was likely heading east to rendezvous with them.
Of course, it was also possible the Poles had realized their disadvantage and were fleeing directly west toward Orsha.
General Kutuzov’s orders were simple: stick to the Polish Army and employ harassment tactics to deplete their supplies.
Yet a day and a half had passed, and he still hadn't found a trace of them.
Bagration instinctively ignored the warning and asked with a surge of excitement, "Where are they?"
A Hussar spotted his banner and rode straight for him. "Just five kilometers to the south, General! They're forming up—at least fifteen thousand of them!"
Bagration’s heart skipped a beat.
Though he had twenty thousand men, they were currently positioned for a pursuit, not a defensive engagement. It was fortunate the snow was falling so heavily that the Poles couldn't launch an immediate assault; otherwise, he might have been caught off guard.
He quickly regained his composure and turned to his herald, shouting, "Order the entire army to retreat north. Establish a defensive line at Vera Village!"
Now that the Poles had been located, he had regained the initiative.
He had no need to fight the Poles head-on. As long as he could stall them, they would starve or freeze to death in less than a month.
Wheeling his horse around, he spoke to a nearby staff officer. "Send word to General Kutuzov immediately. Tell him we've located the Polish rear guard!"
"Yes, General!"
The snow didn't let up until the following noon. Polish cavalry launched a charge toward Smolens Town, only to find the Russian Army had long since departed. Back in Vera Village, a group of officers surrounding Prince Bagration shared a laugh as they gnawed on hard black bread.
A cavalryman continued his report. "The Poles found nothing. In their frustration, they torched the town. Now they're regrouping, seemingly intent on continuing the chase."
Bagration nodded, weighing whether to retreat further north, when a staff officer approached rapidly with a herald. "General, orders from the General Headquarters."
Bagration broke the wax seal on the message tube and unrolled the parchment. His brow furrowed instantly.
In the letter, General Kutuzov warned him to be wary of the Poles becoming desperate and making a sudden dash for Toropets to the north.
Though it was still over two hundred kilometers from Saint Petersburg, no one could guarantee what might happen. After all, the Poles had once risked their entire army to launch a thousand-mile raid on Crimea.
Therefore, he had to block the Polish Army at the southern bank of the Western Dvina River.
General Kutuzov had also dispatched two Guard Cavalry Battalions to reinforce him.
Bagration immediately summoned his officers and laid out a detailed battle plan, preparing to intercept the Poles in front of the dense forest five or six kilometers to the north. However, he waited until the following afternoon without ever seeing the "desperate" Polish forces.
Before dusk, a Cossack scout finally returned to report that the Polish troops at Smolens Town had fled south.
Meanwhile, near the key town of Dorogobuzh, over a hundred kilometers east of Smolensk, Wittgenstein's Corps finally caught up with the Polish vanguard.
"The enemy is moving incredibly fast, General," the staff officer said, reviewing the compiled intelligence. "Based on the tracks, the Cossacks estimate there are over four thousand cavalry alone."
Wittgenstein glanced at his soldiers, who were huddling against the cold, and frowned. "How have they not exhausted their fodder yet?"
"We can't delay any longer. If they make it back to Yartsevo, we'll be in trouble."
"Order all cavalry to intercept the Poles before dark, regardless of the cost."
"Also, establish contact with General Tormasov as soon as possible. I want to launch the attack simultaneously with him."
Tormasov's Corps was positioned north of Dorogobuzh, tasked with assisting him in encircling the Madalinski Legion.
As his orders reached the Russian cavalry commanders several kilometers away, nearly two thousand Russian riders began to gallop westward, pushing their horses to the limit. Yet the Polish army was like a startled rabbit, fleeing with incredible speed.
The Russian cavalry gave chase until four in the afternoon. Just as their war horses were beginning to foam at the mouth, they finally spotted the backs of the Poles. Battalion Commander Golitsyn raised his telescope and saw a vast array of grayish-white and red wings fluttering in the wind. He took a deep breath, drew his saber, and roared, "Form up! Cut in from the south!"
He was taking a massive risk. Clashing head-on with the Polish Winged Hussars would undoubtedly result in heavy casualties. But General Wittgenstein's orders were to stop them at all costs.
Half an hour later, several hundred Cossacks were the first to charge, letting out wild war cries as they closed in on the Polish lines.
To their surprise, the Polish Winged Hussars didn't react at all. They simply continued their sluggish journey westward as if they were fools.
The Cossacks were ecstatic. If the enemy refused to form a proper line to meet them, the ensuing carnage would be total.
But when they came within carbine range, every single one of them froze in shock.
There were no men atop the Polish horses. Branches had been lashed to the sides of the animals' bellies, with the iconic feathers of the Winged Hussars stuck into the wood.
The Russians rode through the herd in disbelief, watching as the riderless horses scattered in panic.
At the very front of this "Winged Hussar" formation, over two hundred Polish riders heard the commotion behind them. They immediately turned their mounts and bolted toward the southwest.
Their mission had been to lead these four thousand horses toward Smolensk to draw the Russian army's attention.
At dawn, General Wittgenstein looked at the massive herd of horses, his eye twitching involuntarily.
If it were normal times, such vast spoils of war would have left him wild with joy. But right now, his own cavalry battalions were short on fodder. What was he supposed to feed these animals?
Yet he couldn't bring himself to simply abandon them. So many fine horses could be sold for at least a million rubles back in Moscow.
Indeed, in this severe winter where the temperature dipped to fifteen degrees below zero and snow fell incessantly, Russian logistics were far from easy.
The Russian Department of Military Supplies had scoured the regions of Kaluga, Tula, and Ryazan for every scrap of resources just to maintain the consumption of Kutuzov’s army of over a hundred thousand men.
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