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Chapter 1473: Battle with the Severe Winter, Part 2

Wittgenstein ordered his staff officers to gather the war horses before turning his attention to the most pressing issue at hand.

Where had Madalinski’s army of forty thousand gone?

He had a map brought to him and stood over it, brow furrowed in deep thought for a long time. Suddenly, his eyelids twitched. "Damn it! Could the Poles have fled toward Kaluga?" Kaluga sat southeast of Dorogobuzh, one of the wealthier cities surrounding Moscow.

The more he considered it, the more certain he became.

The Poles must be starving. They were likely willing to abandon a large number of war horses to lure his army westward, creating a gap to the south. Once the opening appeared, they would strike south toward Kaluga to seize provisions!

Cold sweat broke out on Wittgenstein’s forehead.

The southern flank was his responsibility; if the Poles slipped through to Kaluga, he would bear the full weight of the blame. He turned to his herald and shouted, "Nikolahov! Order the entire army to move south immediately!"

"Yes, General!"

"And report to General Kutuzov. Tell him the Poles are likely targeting Kaluga. Request reinforcements!"

The officer offered a nonchalant smile. "Don’t worry, General. I’m still waiting for you to decorate me in front of the Tin-Roofed Palace!"

Without another word, he turned and signaled to the nearly one thousand soldiers beside him. Together, they trudged eastward through the deep snow.

Madalinski watched until their silhouettes vanished into the white expanse. Only then did he sigh heavily, turning his horse to follow the main force. "May God protect these Polish heroes."

He had already dispatched three such small detachments.

Although he had given them a significant portion of his remaining supplies, their chances of surviving a journey into the heart of Russia and returning to Poland remained slim.

The Madalinski Legion had essentially abandoned all heavy baggage. The soldiers carried only ten days’ worth of rations, traveling light.

Counter-intuitively, the lack of war horses did not significantly slow the army’s pace. In fact, traveling light on foot was often faster during severe weather.

Fodder for horses weighed far more than rations for soldiers, and supply wagons were notoriously difficult to move through ice and snow. By discarding their heavy artillery and most of their ammunition, the army could cover an additional ten kilometers or so each day.

Of course, this stripped the Madalinski Legion of much of its combat effectiveness, but their current goal was to escape their predicament as quickly as possible, not to engage the Russian Army in open battle.

Four days later, Madalinski’s troops successfully crossed the frozen upper reaches of the Oka River. Since Wittgenstein had been lured to the west of Dorogobuzh, they encountered no resistance along the way.

Ironically, because Kutuzov had turned the surrounding hundreds of kilometers into a scorched-earth no-man’s-land to deny the Poles food, there were no Russian peasants left to report their movements.

After another week of marching, when Madalinski was forty kilometers west of Bryansk, his remaining scouts reported signs of human activity around the city.

Where there were people, there was food.

However, after much hesitation, Madalinski decided to strictly follow Marshal Kosciuszko’s orders—which were, in essence, Saint-Cyr’s retreat plan. He maintained his distance from Bryansk and continued to move stealthily southward.

Twenty worn-out wagons departed from Kaluga, slowly picking their way through the thick snow toward the northwest. In a black carriage at the center of the convoy, a Russian captain sat with a pipe clenched between his teeth, sharing crude jokes with a fellow officer. Their vulgar laughter echoed periodically.

Their relaxation was understandable. The Polish Army was supposed to be over a hundred kilometers away in Dorogobuzh, with General Wittgenstein’s twenty-thousand-strong corps standing between them.

In reality, their wagons were carrying logistics supplies for Wittgenstein’s corps.

Since the start of hostilities, residents west of Moscow had been forcibly relocated, causing a massive influx of people into Kaluga.

These officers had recently purchased several strong, cheap serfs and were currently discussing how they would enjoy themselves at a brothel once the mission was over. In Kaluga’s brothels, there was plenty of fresh "merchandise."

The lead captain glanced at the position of the sun, preparing to order the convoy to halt for lunch, when a sudden cry erupted from the front of the line. "Poles!"

"Look out! They’re coming this way!"

"Form up! Where is everyone? Form a line!"

However, the Russian soldiers had long since let their guard down. In the chaos, ten Polish columns rapidly closed in and deployed into ranks. The Polish Army had fully adopted the French military drill two years prior.

As the attacking Poles unleashed a volley, the Russian soldiers—still trying to organize a defense—scattered in panic.

The lead Russian captain frantically ordered the wagons to turn around, only to find another detachment of Poles emerging from behind them.

More rhythmic gunfire erupted. The Russians had no choice but to flee into the woods flanking the road.

Major Antoni Nalewsky barked orders for his soldiers to keep watch at the roadside while he personally led a group to set fire to bags of grain and oats. Half an hour later, they retreated south under a shroud of thick black smoke, their horses laden with over a hundred bags of grain seized from the Russian wagons. Their mission was simple: ambush supply convoys near Russian cities.

Saint-Cyr knew well that the severe winter was equally impartial to both the Poles and the Russians.

Especially since the villages around the battlefield had been destroyed, the Russian Army also had to transport supplies from great distances.

Who said only the Russians could strike at supply lines?

The Poles could strike back just as hard!

Two days later.

The engineer battalion commander saluted Wittgenstein. "General, the ice is firm enough; both soldiers and horses should be able to cross. However, moving the heavy artillery across poses a significant risk."

Wittgenstein scowled. "Then build pontoon bridges immediately!"

The Polish Army had previously displayed formidable combat prowess, and he wasn’t certain he could defeat them without his cannons.

He turned to a staff officer. "Have the supplies still not arrived?"

"I’ve already sent men to hurry them along, General..."

Before the staff officer could finish, a cavalryman galloped up and shouted, "Our convoy was ambushed near Yemei Village! Major Yefimov says the next shipment won’t leave for another two days!"

"Imbeciles!" Wittgenstein stomped violently on the snow, imagining it was the head of a cursed Pole. "Those bastards really did go to Kaluga!"

To speed up the pursuit, he had only brought a week’s worth of supplies. If he didn’t receive reinforcements soon, his men would likely starve before the Poles did. As night fell.

The brushwood to the west of Wittgenstein’s camp suddenly erupted in flames. Since the villages along the route had been burned by the Poles, the Russian Army was forced to camp in the open.

Warning drums thundered. The twenty thousand Russian troops were kept in a state of high alert until three in the morning before they finally confirmed there was no enemy attack.

It was too late to properly reset the camp. The Russian soldiers had no choice but to scrape away the snow and wrap themselves in blankets, managing only four hours of fitful sleep.