Chapter 679: Eastern Europe Ablaze Part Seven
Chapter 680: Eastern Europe Ablaze Part Seven
Just then, the gunfire from the farmhouse abruptly ceased.
Drasowitz turned to look and saw over a dozen Russian cavalrymen swarming from both sides behind the farmhouse. They prodded the bodies of Father Stasiak and the others with their sabers, seemingly venting their anger or confirming they were truly dead.
The other soldiers clearly witnessed this scene as well, clutching their flintlock muskets tightly, their eyes blazing with furious indignation.
"Damn beasts!"
Someone roared, eyes bloodshot, "Let's avenge the Father!"
"Yes, slaughter those bastards!"
"Everyone, hold back!" Though his face was ashen, the Seventh Company's captain stopped the soldiers, shouting, "We must make Father Stasiak's death meaningful. We must hold these cannons!"
Drasowitz gritted his teeth and asked, "Sir, what should we do?"
The captain quickly scanned the makeshift artillery position beneath their feet.
It was a small knoll, slightly elevated, with nothing for cover except a clump of trees behind them. And the defensive barriers meant to deter cavalry were merely two haphazardly placed wooden frames.
This meant the Russian cavalry could attack from several directions.
From afar, the cries of Cossacks echoed.
The captain glanced at the cannon wheels buried in the earth—a common practice for gunners to ensure stability during firing—his brows furrowed. There was no time to move the cannons.
He didn't have time for detailed thought and addressed his soldiers: "Twenty of the strongest men, fix bayonets and form a semicircle. Try to shield the cannons.
"The rest of you, fire from within.
"Karoslaw, take a few men and bring over the spiked barriers."
He then looked at the artillery captain: "Have your men pick up their guns and help us repel the cavalry."
"Yes, sir. But we only have four flintlock muskets left."
The artillerymen's guns had been taken by Father Stasiak and his group.
"Then use ramrods, long-handled brushes, anything you can find."
"Understood, sir!"
The Cossack cavalry were fast. They barely formed a coherent formation, letting out shouts as they bore down on the artillery position from the west.
Drasowitz stood in a wide stance, tucking the butt of his flintlock musket into his hip, its bayonet angled upwards at 45 degrees.
The men beside him were veterans, needing no reminder, so he turned to Yanik behind him: "Hold steady. Cavalry firearms have short range. Aim carefully before firing. You might only get one shot."
Yanik's breathing was ragged. He nodded vigorously and said, "Right, I've got it."
Just a few minutes later, the Russian cavalry, like a pack of wolves, arrived about eighty or ninety paces from the artillery position and spurred their horses into a full gallop.
Typically, when facing an infantry bayonet line, cavalry would choose to sweep past the front, seizing the opportunity to inflict damage with guns or sabers, then regroup at a distance and charge again.
Through repeated harassment, they would aim to create a gap in the infantry formation and then force their way through.
However, this time the Russians saw that the defending infantry were outnumbered and, because the defensive line was too broad, the infantry formed only a thin line. So, they decided to charge directly.
The thunder of hooves hammered against the hearts of every Polish infantryman.
Even the most experienced veterans would inevitably feel a surge of intense fear when towering warhorses charged directly at them.
But the twenty Polish infantrymen, arrayed in a semicircle, were rooted to the spot. Their eyes were wide, and they even forgot to breathe, yet not one of them budged an inch.
With a mighty roar, the cannon shielded by the Polish soldiers opened fire first.
Only one cannon had an angle on the Russians. A cluster of iron balls tore into the cavalry formation, dispersing under immense momentum, directly piercing two horses and three Russian cavalrymen. Smoke and gore left streaks through the ranks.
Several gunners swiftly cooled the gun barrel with wet cloths, then loaded gunpowder.
However, the Cossack cavalry had already charged onto the knoll, their cavalry firearms crackling and bursting. Instantly, two Polish soldiers clutched their wounds and fell.
The Seventh Company captain continued to repeat, "Don't fire, wait—"
The cavalry had charged to within thirty paces of the Polish line, discarding their guns and drawing their sabers—their primary weapons—and screaming as they charged straight ahead.
Naturally, because this was Polish territory, and reinforcements could arrive at any moment, they also wanted to finish the fight quickly.
Just as Drasowitz could distinctly smell the horses' breath, he finally heard the captain's shout: "Fire—"
A volley of flames erupted behind him.
The six Cossack cavalrymen at the front fell from their horses at the sound, tripping up two others behind them.
"Hold the line!"
The captain had barely roared the command when Drasowitz felt a shower of gravel and dirt hit his face, his vision momentarily darkening as sunlight was blocked by the warhorses.
The common movie trope of cavalry crashing head-on into infantry lines was impossible. Horses instinctively halt when faced with sharp bayonets.
A Cossack cavalryman on horseback raised his saber high and brought it straight down at him.
"Watch out!" a nearby soldier cried out, quickly thrusting his bayonet forward. It pierced the cavalryman's waist first, even as the saber was halfway down.
The Russian shrieked and tumbled from his horse.
"Thank you..."
Drasowitz had barely managed to utter a word when a saber slashed in from the side. A horrifying wound instantly appeared on the chest of the soldier who had just saved his life.
"No!"
Drasowitz's eyes threatened to bleed. He roared, raised his bayonet, and charged at the Russian cavalryman...
Behind him, Yanik gripped his flintlock musket, confronting a Cossack cavalryman head-on.
The cavalryman on horseback was significantly taller than the infantryman, making close combat like an ordinary man fighting a dwarf, yet Yanik showed not the slightest fear. Risking the Russian's saber strike, he gritted his teeth and thrust at his abdomen...
Not far away, Karoslaw tackled a Russian cavalryman. The two grappled each other's throats, rolling down the knoll together...
Polish artillerists in the rear poked a long-handled brush into a horse's neck, and the startled horse threw its rider. But the next moment, a hand axe suddenly flew from somewhere, thudding into his forehead...
A Polish soldier with a broken right leg panted heavily, crawling to the nearest Cossack cavalryman. Using his last ounce of strength, he hacked at the horse's leg with a retrieved saber—the highest point he could reach...
The Russians had never expected such a flimsy infantry line to hold firm without breaking under the full force of over thirty cavalrymen.
And, what's more, to drag them into a hellish death match, trading lives for lives.
In just over ten minutes, the slope was already littered with corpses. Amidst the blood and severed limbs covering the ground, several horses restlessly twisted their bodies, trying to shake off the dead men hanging from their stirrups.
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