Chapter 705: The Eagle and the Knight
Zubov froze instantly.
Stanislaw II gestured for his attendant to bring a map, and he began meticulously discussing with the Russian State Minister which territories should be ceded.
It wasn't until past five in the afternoon that both sides finalized the new border between Poland and Russia.
Stanislaw II generously allocated most of the central and eastern provinces to Russia.
Then, he picked up the treaty Zubov had drafted. "You see, merely amending these articles in the Constitution doesn't guarantee that those fellows in parliament won't harbor ill intentions towards His Imperial Majesty again.
"We should discuss a detailed plan to ensure parliament does not defy His Majesty's will."
Zubov's eyes widened, and he nodded. "Yes, yes, good."
The armistice negotiations entered their fourth day.
Stanislaw II glanced at the armed Russian guards at the entrance of the negotiation hall, silently counting: 'Twenty-two days. Warsaw needs eighteen more.'
"Oh, the orders you sent to General Kościuszko should reach him soon. His Imperial Majesty has decided that once his army surrenders, she will personally bestow upon you the Order of St. George."
Stanislaw II was instantly overwhelmed. "This is truly the honor of my lifetime! My deepest thanks to His Majesty."
Zubov then had the recent negotiation results brought forth, stating, "His Imperial Majesty is extremely satisfied with this treaty.
"However, our discussions have taken a little too long, and Her Majesty seems somewhat impatient. She has instructed us to sign the armistice treaty as soon as possible; the finer details can be discussed at leisure later."
"That's certainly not an issue," Stanislaw II replied with a deferential smile. "However, I believe that your country's garrison in Warsaw should be further strengthened..."
He continued to ramble, adding numerous unrelated clauses to the treaty, dragging the discussion on until dusk. When Zubov finally moved to make him sign, Stanislaw II immediately clutched his stomach and collapsed to the floor. "Ah, the pain... I fear my dysentery has returned..."
After a full day of "treatment," Zubov finally stormed into the Polish King's room, his face dark, and demanded, "I've spoken to the physician. You haven't had diarrhea or a fever all day. You don't have dysentery at all!"
"I... I don't know what this illness is, but in any case, I feel terribly weak..."
Just then, an official approached Zubov and whispered something in his ear.
Zubov immediately pointed at Stanislaw II, his voice cold. "Kościuszko has defied your orders! His army continues to push eastward!"
"Th-that's impossible!" the Polish King stammered, still trying to buy time. "I can write him another letter; the wording will be much harsher."
Zubov's face hardened. He sat by the King's sickbed and thrust the armistice treaty forward. "I want you to sign this, now, immediately!"
"Oh dear, oh dear..."
"Guards, prop His Majesty up. Give him a pen."
Stanislaw II reluctantly sat upright, casting a wry glance at the Tsar's paramour. "You know, according to the Polish Constitution, an armistice treaty requires parliamentary approval to be valid, so I..."
Zubov instantly erupted in fury, roaring, "You scoundrel! I'll make you regret this!"
The Polish King watched his retreating back as Zubov slammed the door shut, then murmured to himself, 'Twenty-four days... I've truly done my best. May God protect Poland.'
...
Stanislaw II and his entourage were thrown into prison.
Catherine II looked at Korezenikov, who stood trembling like an autumn leaf in the wind beside her, then swung her cane down hard upon him. "Imbecile!"
Rumyantsev quickly stepped forward to divert her attention:
"Your Imperial Majesty, fortunately, our defensive measures in the central regions are still being implemented as planned. The situation is not too dire."
The Tsar turned, breathing heavily, and declared:
"Hmph, hmph... The Poles must be taught a severe lesson! Order Count Suvorov to personally command the battle for Minsk."
Before, no one in Russia had taken Poland seriously. Suvorov had merely been given the nominal title of Commander-in-Chief for the war against Poland, responsible for overall coordination in Smolensk.
But now, in her rage, the Tsar no longer cared about the old general's age, sending him directly to the front lines.
"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty," Rumyantsev replied, glancing at Korezenikov before adding, "Perhaps General Korezenikov could be sent to deal with Kościuszko, to atone for his failures."
"Do as you suggested."
...
Central-Western Russia.
Outside the city of Bryansk.
The serf Yakov handed a plank to Yegor, who was squatting on a pigsty, and shouted, "I heard Old Master Gumilov say that His Imperial Majesty's army is about to take Minsk!"
"Where's Minsk?" the serf grumbled, hammering nails into the pigsty. "Give me the narrow plank. The Emperor's lands are always growing."
"It's to the west, Polish territory," Yakov said. "They say over a hundred thousand troops are attacking there; they should push all the way to Warsaw this time. Oh, that's the capital of Poland."
"Sounds like it's a long way off. Won't the Poles fight back?"
"Of course, they'll resist. But Old Master Gumilov says the Poles are very weak; we fought them once twenty years ago and gained a lot of land. It'll surely be the same this time."
"If we win the war, the masters will be happy, and maybe they'll give us white bread to eat."
"Heh, or they might get drunk and beat you, just like the generals beat those Poles."
"But it's still better to win..."
As the two spoke, they suddenly straightened up in unison, gazing southwest.
"What's that?" Yegor whispered, his voice trembling. "It looks like the hailstorm from two years ago..."
"Th-the sound is much louder than that. And, do you feel it? Th-the ground seems to be shaking!"
"God, is it the end of the world?"
They stood frozen in shock.
Near the horizon, a dense mass of red-clad cavalry appeared.
Behind those riders, towering white wings swayed gently in the wind, as if a great flock of angels were sweeping down.
The two serfs frantically made the sign of the cross and prayed aloud.
Immediately afterward, they watched as the "Red Angels" roared through the village, striking Bryansk like a massive hammer blow, crashing into the nearby city.
The fragile city offered virtually no resistance, crumbling almost instantly under the cavalry's charge.
Behind the cavalry came over a dozen infantry squares, pouring into Bryansk from multiple directions.
In less than half an hour, the city's noble lords and common citizens alike were crying and fleeing outside the city walls.
The enormous city resembled a disturbed anthill, countless black specks scattering from it in all directions.
Yegor, hiding in the pigsty, asked his companion fearfully, "Wh-who are these people?"
Yakov pointed to the red, grid-patterned banner held aloft by distant soldiers, discerning the eagle and knight emblem upon it, and spoke in a voice filled with utter terror:
"It seems... they are Poles."
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