Chapter 709: Promise
The elite royal cavalry Bagration had dispatched was far superior in quality to the Cossacks.
However, Madaliński and his soldiers staunchly resisted the repeated charges of a thousand cavalry with their bayonets. Despite continuous casualties, they did not retreat an inch.
After half a day, the Russian cavalry realized they couldn't break through the Polish infantry and decided to use a gap near the river valley to bypass them.
Instantly, two imposing squadrons of Winged Hussars intercepted them.
The Polish infantry then joined forces, flanking them and killing forty to fifty Russians on the spot.
The next day, the Russian cavalry, having suffered losses, paused their offensive.
By three in the afternoon, nearly a thousand more Russian cavalry arrived from north of Bryansk.
It turned out that the Russian cavalry commander had already sent messengers to Bagration requesting reinforcements the night before last.
In fact, several thousand more Russian infantry were on their way, about 8.5 kilometers away.
Lacking artillery—Madaliński knew the cannons were the main force's hope for taking Kursk Fortress and thus hadn't requested artillery support—the damage inflicted on the enemy cavalry was very limited. The Poles could only continuously contract their defensive line to fill the gaps created by their dwindling numbers.
Fortunately, it was an overcast day, and the sun set at half past five, forcing the Russians to withdraw.
In the Polish camp, a lieutenant reported to Madaliński, "Colonel, we have suffered 107 killed and 205 seriously wounded."
Madaliński nodded silently and told his adjutant, "Ensure everyone gets good rest. Tomorrow, there's still another day."
Only a thousand soldiers remained, while the Russians were gathering in ever-increasing numbers. He didn't know if he could fulfill his promise to hold the line for three days.
He offered a wry smile. 'Perhaps I'll just have to confess to General Kościuszko after I'm in hell,' he thought. 'I've got so many to confess to anyway; one more won't make a difference.'
Early the next morning, the Russian army wasted no time, immediately launching a fierce assault on the Polish line.
Madaliński himself stood in the center of the defensive line, flintlock musket in hand.
At this point, there was little to command. He felt that instead of constantly shouting "Hold the line!" to his soldiers, it would be more effective to add a bit of firepower.
The ground began to tremble.
Madaliński's ears were filled with shouts of "Ura!", gunshots, and the beat of drums. His hands mechanically reloaded and fired, again and again...
By the time the sun passed directly overhead, he realized his arms were utterly exhausted. He cursed under his breath, 'Damn it, I'm nowhere near as good as I was a decade ago.'
He turned his head to see that their own defensive line was now less than 200 meters wide.
Many severely wounded soldiers, sitting on the ground, still struggled to raise their rifles and fire at the enemy.
After an indeterminate time, Madaliński could no longer even lift his musket. He stood there, panting heavily. As a commander, it had indeed been a long time since he'd had any shooting practice.
The Winged Hussars were also squeezed into very narrow sections on both flanks of the defense. Many cavalrymen simply dismounted, picked up a flintlock musket, and joined the defensive line.
The Russians could have bypassed them and continued eastward long ago, but it seemed they wanted to retaliate against these stubborn enemies, so they remained concentrated around them, launching relentless assaults.
Madaliński glanced at the sun, already sinking towards the west, and shouted with all his might, "Hold the line, everyone!"
Suddenly, a Russian cavalryman swept past him. Without the threat of a bayonet, the rider's saber easily sliced through his neck.
Madaliński felt his strength rapidly draining away. He took one last look at the sun, wanting to tell his soldiers, 'One more hour, at most,' but no words escaped him.
Darkness finally fell.
Under the flickering light of torches, the Russian soldiers looked at the piles of Polish corpses, yet felt no joy of victory.
Instead, a profound dread swelled in their hearts.
Not a single one of these Poles had surrendered!
The last hundred-plus men, completely surrounded, had actually launched a bayonet charge against thousands of cavalry.
The Russian soldiers tried to suppress the thought that kept bubbling up: 'If all Poles fight like this, is there any hope left for us to win this war?'
South of Bryansk.
At the edge of the dark forests of Severia, Kościuszko gazed northward, a heavy feeling in his chest.
The Russians had never pursued them.
He knew that Madaliński and his soldiers had kept their promise.
Next, it was his turn to fulfill his promise to the homeland.
...
Eastern outskirts of Minsk.
Inside a carriage, escorted by nearly a hundred cavalrymen, Marshal Alexander Vasilyevich Suvorov helplessly sifted through intelligence reports about the Polish defenders of Minsk.
He had been "on vacation" in Smolensk, never expecting to be suddenly dispatched to the front by the Tsar.
'These young men today are truly incapable of handling major responsibilities,' he grumbled internally. His hand paused, flipped forward a few pages, then back again, before he handed the stack of documents to the officer seated opposite him. "General Tormasov," he said, "I'll leave this problem for you to solve."
The latter took the documents, scrutinized them for a long moment, then said with surprise, "Marshal, I don't quite understand what you mean."
Suvorov said languidly, "The composition of the Polish army."
"What?"
"Well, the Vilnius Corps, the Trakai Corps, and so on—even the distant Drahichyn Corps has been included. But there are no troops from Courland."
Tormasov immediately furrowed his brow.
Courland was a duchy in northeastern Poland, but it had little independence, being a vassal state of Lithuania. It was indeed highly unusual that they hadn't sent troops for Poland's national war.
"Are you suggesting the Courland army has other plans?"
"Riga Port," Suvorov stated. "If I'm not mistaken, they will soon launch an attack there."
Riga was Russia's most crucial port on the Baltic Sea. If it came under attack, Russia would inevitably have to send troops to its defense.
Tormasov said, "The Polish lines have been continuously retreating. They shouldn't be dividing their forces to..."
Suvorov shook his head. "No, they've already done this once at Bryansk, and they're pressing toward Moscow. I have reason to suspect Riga will be the same."
Tormasov nodded eagerly. "Yes, Marshal, I will send men to reinforce Riga's defenses immediately."
At this very moment, Kosinski was leading four thousand soldiers, anxiously awaiting supplies in Courland—the region was so impoverished that even after more than half a month, they still hadn't managed to gather the necessary provisions for the army.
And this flash of insight from Suvorov, Russia's war god, completely disrupted the Polish army's northern strategy.
Before long, the carriage halted outside the makeshift Russian command post.
Suvorov dismounted and, seeing a group of generals about to gather and salute him, immediately glared and exclaimed loudly, "Who permitted you to waste time here? Attack the Polish lines, at once!"
Comments