Chapter 700: Despair and Hope
Finally, the commander's voice sounded in their ears, "Aim! Fire—"
Old Wicha and his son raised their muskets together, firing at the Austrians opposite them.
However, their side had no proper formation, and their firing was extremely uncoordinated; barely a dozen men fell from the Austrian Line Formation.
The Swiss mercenaries' column formation, in contrast, suddenly fanned out, cutting down dozens of enemies at close range.
Makowski immediately pointed there, yelling, "Concentrate your fire there!
"Hold your ground, everyone! For the mine, for Poland!"
Old Wicha immediately gestured for his son to follow him toward the gap in the enemy's line, reloading and firing intermittently as they advanced.
He frowned, praying silently that he wouldn't be hit, and that any bullets aimed at his son would instead strike him.
Then he thought of the comfortable life his family had enjoyed this past year, of white bread slathered with butter, and of the girl from the Donald family his son was so fond of.
He quickened his pace, charging to within fifty paces of the enemy, then abruptly stopped, raised his musket, and pulled the trigger.
A spray of blood erupted ahead; he had hit the man.
He glanced back at his son, then calmly reloaded.
Bullets whizzed past his ears periodically, but his prayers seemed to be working; he remained untouched.
He ran forward a few more steps, raised his musket, and fired.
The number of comrades around him dwindled. His mind was blank, save for one thought: 'He absolutely could not retreat.'
"Ah!"
Wicha Jr.'s cry came from behind him.
Old Wicha's heart clenched. He turned to see his son already scrambling back up, seemingly unharmed except for a coating of dirt.
"I'm fine!" Wicha Jr. shouted, aiming his musket. "Just tripped."
Old Wicha nearly wept with relief, gritted his teeth, and advanced a few more steps. He was almost right up against the Austrian defense line.
Several Patrol Team members suddenly rushed past him. He even spotted Makowski among them.
"Son, keep up!" Old Wicha shouted to his son. "Just a little longer, and we'll break through!"
Wicha Jr. had already fallen in behind Makowski.
Dozens of triggers were pulled in quick succession, and the gap in the Austrian line opposite them immediately widened further.
A nearby Patrol Team member was hit, blood pooling at Old Wicha's feet. He trembled as he pulled out his powder flask and poured it down the barrel, preparing himself for the possibility that the next bullet would be his own.
Just then, the Austrians opposite them suddenly let out a series of shouts, then turned and fled.
It turned out Old Wicha's last shot had killed the man in the white and green uniform behind the Austrian line.
The rout quickly spread. In less than three minutes, the entire Austrian infantry Line Formation dissolved. The execution squad couldn't stop over 1,500 soldiers, and to avoid being trampled, they had no choice but to flee with them.
After a few more sporadic gunshots, the battlefield fell silent.
Makowski emerged from the gunsmoke, raised his flintlock musket, and cried out excitedly:
"We won! We drove them back!"
Miners nearby began to weep.
"I... I didn't die, sniffle..."
"Antoni, are you alright?"
"Those cowards, they ran!"
"Yes, we won! We won!"
Old Wicha gazed at the bodies strewn across the ground, yet felt no sadness, only holding his son tightly.
In reality, nearly 400 men from the mining company had died during the recent charge, while the Austrian army had lost only a little over 100.
Yet, the Poles had steadfastly engaged the enemy with their crude marksmanship, without the slightest hesitation.
The Austrian army's flagging morale, however, had once again led to their collapse.
Makowski continued to shout:
"Where are the drummers? Get over here. And the standard-bearers, quickly, rally everyone! We need to get up the mountain as fast as possible!"
The mercenaries and miners scattered around the battlefield began to gather, quickly forming a rough line, following Makowski around the ore washing pond. The small path lay ahead.
Just then, a steady drumbeat suddenly rose from ahead.
A gust of wind dispersed the thick gunsmoke, and everyone from the mining company froze on the spot.
Just two hundred paces away, another long, narrow, grayish-white wall of men stood silently watching them.
Clearly, Wurmser, relying on his superior numbers, had deployed more than one defensive line.
Old Wicha felt a bitter taste in his mouth. He glanced at his son and silently began reloading.
Makowski took a deep breath, seized the regimental flag, and moved to the very front of the formation:
"Follow me! We can win again!"
In truth, he knew well that the recent struggle had drained everyone's physical strength and fighting spirit. If they could rest for a few hours, perhaps they truly could break through the enemy's blockade.
But now, they would likely all fall at the foot of Tarnowskie Góry.
The mercenaries began to waver. Though the mining company had offered them exceptionally high wages, the current situation made victory impossible. They had no desire to die pointlessly.
Yet, the miners flocked to Makowski's side. The drums immediately struck up, and they formed a somewhat ragged line, slowly advancing toward the Austrian army.
This was their home, their mine. If they didn't fight for it, who would?
Before long, over a thousand miners entered the range of the Austrian infantry Line Formation.
The Austrian soldiers stared in surprise at these Poles, blackened by gunpowder smoke and bearing numerous wounds, momentarily forgetting to fire.
It was Makowski, in contrast, who shouted:
"Aim! Fire—"
The miners raised their muskets and fired, then reloaded, steadily pressing forward.
Old Wicha walked, making the sign of the cross over his chest and muttering softly:
"God, please grant us your grace..."
Whether it was an illusion or not, he felt that the Austrian firepower opposite them seemed significantly weaker than before.
When they halted under Makowski's command and unleashed a volley, the Austrian defensive line actually developed several cracks.
The Austrian soldiers cried out in terror, scattering and fleeing in all directions.
Many seemed utterly terrified, blindly rushing toward the miners, only to be shot down one after another.
Wicha Jr. moved closer, pointing across the field:
"Father, I think I hear gunshots in the distance too."
A little over ten minutes later, the soldiers on the Austrian defensive line knelt and surrendered, watched by the astonished miners.
Immediately afterward, a troop of soldiers in various uniforms emerged from the gunsmoke behind them, muskets at the ready.
"It's reinforcements!"
Makowski instantly waved his hand, cheering excitedly:
"We are the resistance fighters of the Umiyan Mining Company. Thank you, who sent you?"
A burst of German came from the other side.
Then, someone spoke loudly in broken Polish:
"We are volunteers from Nowy Sącz, Crusaders!"
Both sides cautiously approached each other. When Makowski saw the document issued by the Polish government handed to him by Major Ficot, he finally relaxed.
"Thank God!"
"Long live the Crusaders!"
"You are true patriots!"
As the miners, overjoyed, pulled the volunteers into celebrations, Major Ficot suddenly frowned, looking south.
From that direction came a sound like heavy rain drumming on a rooftop.
"Cavalry!"
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