Chapter 700: Loyalty and Shame
Chapter 701: Loyalty and Shame
In front of the ore washing pond, all the miners fell silent.
The rumbling of hooves in the distance pounded violently in each of their chests.
Makowski glanced at the narrow mountain path behind them, which could only fit two or three people abreast. With nearly two thousand miners and volunteers combined, it would take at least half an hour for everyone to ascend the mountain.
The Austrian cavalry wouldn't give them that chance.
He sighed, explained the current situation to Major Ficot's translator, then said, "It seems we'll have to repel those cavalry first."
Ficot frowned, looking around at the exhausted and battered miners. "You need rest. Retreat into the mountains first. I'll hold them off here."
"How can you? You just saved..."
"Stop arguing. You're in no condition to fight right now." Ficot patted his shoulder, lowering his voice. "Please believe me, this wasn't His Majesty the Emperor's decision. Please forgive him."
"Form ranks! Quickly, a three-rank line, block the pass! The enemy could be here in ten minutes!"
Makowski hesitated, then gave him a solemn salute. He ordered the uninjured members of the Patrol Team to stay and help, while the rest immediately withdrew into Tarnowskie Góry.
Old Wicha roughly counted the number of volunteers, then sighed and took off the gray-green jacket he had only worn for a month, stuffing it into his son's hands:
"I told your mother that tailor Miloči charged too much and asked her to return it, but she just wouldn't listen.
"Now, it seems she was right all along. It's probably going to be very cold in the mountains lately, so you should wear it."
Wicha Jr. took the clothes in surprise, about to ask, when he saw his father turn and run to Makowski, calling out,
"Captain, sir, I still have strength. Oh, and enough ammunition too."
The latter nodded, signaling for him to join the Patrol Team.
"Father..." Wicha Jr. immediately started to follow, but his father's stern gaze made him stop.
The miners and mercenaries ascended the mountain along the winding path. By the ore washing pond, 800 volunteers began to form ranks under the command of their officers.
One captured Austrian artilleryman carefully raised his head, nudging the volunteer guarding him towards the rear-side and whispering,
"That... that cannon over there, perhaps, it can still be used."
It was a basic requirement for artillerymen to spike their cannons' touchholes before retreating or surrendering to prevent them from being captured by the enemy, but he apparently hadn't done so earlier.
Before long, about five or six hundred Austrian Hussars appeared in Ficot's sight.
Behind the volunteers' defensive line, the cannon roared, and a cannonball flew over the heads of the Austrian cavalry, scaring them into ducking.
Most of the volunteers were minor nobles or merchants and weren't very skilled at operating cannons.
The Hussars let out a whistle and didn't charge directly into the volunteers' bayonet thicket. Instead, they swept past the front of the ranks, firing a round with their short carbines.
The Austrian commander observed the volunteers' formation, then led his men in a circle, attacking again at the weakest point.
Major Ficot ordered the reserve to fill the gaps and commanded the back ranks to fire.
The cannon had been loaded with grapeshot and fired a round at the cavalry formation at close range.
This time, the widely scattered cannonballs finally found their mark; three cavalrymen were knocked from their horses, blood splattering far and wide.
But this Austrian cavalry unit was clearly Wurmser's elite and didn't slow down one bit. They swept past their designated attack position, stirring up confusion in the volunteer ranks.
After the Hussars repeatedly charged and swept through five or six times, the volunteers' defensive line had become distorted. Only about ten soldiers remained at the most protruding point on the eastern flank.
If not for the cannon's assistance, that position might have already been torn open.
The cavalry commander immediately spotted an opportunity. Without even allowing his men to reload, he instantly wheeled his horse around and charged towards that spot in a triangular formation.
"Victor, take your men and plug the left flank!" Ficot, now standing beside the defensive line, shouted. "Aim the cannon there too!"
Two small squads of Hussars galloped past the volunteers' salient. Sabers instantly swept down several soldiers.
These cavalrymen swerved to the right. The following cavalry squad immediately targeted the gap formed by the fallen soldiers and charged in with raised sabers.
The cannon fired, killing the four cavalrymen at the very front, but those behind them trampled over their mangled bodies, crashing into the infantry.
About ten horses, along with their riders, tumbled over, and three or four more cavalrymen were already upon them.
Standing in their way were only two volunteers, holding their bayonets at an angle.
Gunshots rang out from the rear ranks—reinforcements from Victor's company—but they were still over 60 paces away and could only run and shoot. The third wave of cavalry, opposite them, had already begun its charge.
Herbert Schmitz's legs trembled, his mind blank. He only knew to clutch his flintlock musket tightly, waiting for the cavalry to crash into his bayonet, or for their sabers to cleave him.
A shadowy cavalryman, bringing a gust of wind, deftly dodged his bayonet. However, the gleaming saber halted in mid-air.
The cavalryman on horseback spoke, his voice trembling, "Herbert? Is that you?!"
Herbert Schmitz looked up and saw, illuminated by the sunlight, his brother's face.
"Brother?!"
"Get out of the way, you'll die!"
"No!"
Mort Schmitz roared, "Idiot, this is treason!"
Herbert Schmitz roared even louder, "No, you're the traitor! You've also betrayed God!"
"I... you... His Majesty the Emperor..." Mort Schmitz raised his saber again, his face pale, almost hysterical. "Move!"
Herbert Schmitz clutched his musket tighter. "I'm ashamed of you!"
More gunshots came from the rear ranks; two cavalrymen beside Mort Schmitz instantly slumped on their horses.
The distant cavalry commander furiously yelled, "Schmitz, kill him!"
As soon as those last two infantrymen disappeared, the cavalry following closely would be able to cut into that gap, then tear at both flanks until those "Poles" were completely crushed.
But Mort Schmitz's saber seemed frozen.
All he heard was 'I'm ashamed of you.' He didn't know whether he should be loyal to His Majesty the Emperor at this moment, or listen to the voice of conscience within him.
The sound of hooves behind him gradually grew closer.
Suddenly, a shot rang out from his side and rear. Herbert Schmitz's neck was torn open by a lead bullet, and he fell backward onto the ground.
"No—!"
Mort Schmitz turned to look and saw a cavalryman who had previously fallen from his horse, holding a carbine, smoke still curling from its muzzle.
His eyes instantly turned bloodshot. He wheeled his horse around and charged at the man.
Just as the saber was about to pierce the cavalryman who had fired, he suddenly closed his eyes, letting the saber fall to the ground...
In that moment of hesitation, Victor had led his men to the gap in the line, dozens of bayonets simultaneously pointing forward.
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