Chapter 725: The Final Showdown
"Boom, boom—"
Several cannonballs soared from the city walls, only to fragment midway into dozens of goose-egg-sized iron spheres that instantly swept across the Polish artillery positions below the city.
Swiezynski heard cannonballs whistle overhead, the sound of iron spheres tearing through the air stinging his ears.
But he didn't budge, instead quickly assessing the artillery's losses and shouting loudly to the messenger behind him:
"Number 2 cannon's gunner! Number 4 cannon's bombardier and loader! Number 5 cannon's..."
As the messenger relayed the orders further back, several reserve artillerymen immediately moved to fill the gaps.
In fact, even Colonel Swiezynski had a replacement—if he were hit, Lieutenant Colonel Dorland would step forward and take his place.
But the cannons, on the other hand, could not retreat even an inch!
Just then, as the 24-pounder cannon fired its twenty-seventh shot, and the ground around it was littered with soldiers' corpses, a section of Bakhchysarai's eastern wall finally collapsed with a roar.
There was no need for further words; the battle plan had been meticulously prepared long ago. Soon, the rhythmic thumping of military drums echoed from all sides.
"Charge!"
"For the Motherland!"
"Slaughter the Russian curs!"
Over a thousand Polish infantrymen roared like enraged beasts, charging headlong towards the breach in the city wall, undeterred by the hail of bullets and cannon fire.
Trunikov frantically ordered the Russian army to rush to defend the spot.
The two sides quickly clashed at the gap, barely wide enough for four or five men abreast, exchanging curses and firing their muskets at each other.
But after only three minutes, the Russians were pushed back, beginning to retreat.
Just then, gunshots rang out from behind the Russian soldiers blocking the breach. Three or four Russians were immediately struck in the back and fell to the ground.
Dozens of resistance fighters within the city shouted in Ottoman, hiding behind houses or trees, firing continuously at them.
The Russian army instinctively turned to counterattack. More than a dozen of the closest Polish soldiers immediately seized the opportunity, leaping through the breach in the city wall and into the city...
Before long, the Russian cannons on the city walls gradually fell silent.
The Polish artillerymen exchanged glances, letting out cheers, then quickly spiked their cannons, pushed them over, and grabbing their flintlock muskets, charged towards the breach in the city wall with shouts.
Around two in the afternoon, Trunikov abandoned the city with his remaining 400-odd Russian soldiers and a dozen Russian officials, fleeing south.
Swiezynski and his brave soldiers had taken Bakhchysarai in just seven and a half hours.
Swiezynski looked around the former capital of the Crimean Khanate, discussing with his staff how to inflict the most damage in the shortest time, when he suddenly saw thick black smoke rising from the north of the city.
Soon, an officer reported to him that members of the Ottoman resistance organization were slaughtering Russian nobles and setting their houses ablaze.
Swiezynski paused, then a smile spread across his face as he turned to his staff officer and said:
"Indeed, the destruction work is best left to the Ottomans."
Although the residents of Crimea were mostly Cossacks from southern Russia, the Ottomans had ruled here for centuries. Though few in number, they possessed the pride of a dominant class.
However, ever since Potemkin's army occupied Crimea, the Ottomans had been relegated to a discriminated, inferior people.
Now, with no Russian garrison left in the city, their nearly a decade of accumulated rage immediately erupted.
Swiezynski pondered briefly, then told his staff officer:
"Have the soldiers rest as quickly as possible. We depart at dawn tomorrow."
"Yes, Colonel," the latter nodded, then asked, "Are we going to reinforce General Kościuszko?"
"No," Swiezynski looked east, "I believe that if the General knew of the situation here, he wouldn't want us to reinforce him. We're going to Kaffa Port!"
Kaffa, the easternmost port in Crimea, served as a transit hub between the Sea of Azov and the Black Sea, making it the most important location in Crimea after Bakhchysarai.
Early the next morning, 1,700 Polish soldiers marched east in neat formations, illuminated by the fires still burning within Bakhchysarai.
...
"Maintain formation spacing!"
Amidst the gurgling murmur of the Salhir River, Polish officers made final adjustments to the infantry line formations.
These two line formations were positioned close to the river's west bank, with the Salhir River less than 200 paces behind them.
General Kościuszko deployed his troops here not to 'fight with their backs against the wall' to inspire morale—the morale of soldiers who had penetrated so deep into Russia with him was beyond doubt—but to prevent the Russian army from using its numerical superiority to outflank them.
He intended to engage Kakhovsky in a straight-up confrontation here, with no tricks or maneuvers.
Kakhovsky, having learned from yesterday's defeat, was clearly much more cautious.
The Russian army advanced slowly and carefully, maintaining a distance between its corps that allowed for mutual support at any moment. It wasn't until 10:30 in the morning that they finally spotted the Polish standards by the river.
The Russians' four cannons were the first to roar.
Cannonballs flew over the heads of the Polish skirmishers at the front of the battlefield, tearing into the thin infantry lines, instantly spraying blood.
Yet, the Polish infantry lines stood perfectly straight, like birch trees in a storm. The gale might bend them, but it could not make them move an inch.
Twenty minutes later, the bombardment ceased.
The Russian army launched a full-scale assault, spearheaded by two elite grenadier battalions.
Amidst the probing fire of the skirmishers, the two infantry lines—one grey, one white—drew closer. The grey line was long and thick, the white one shorter and thinner.
Finally, when the two sides were about 70 paces apart, the Russian soldiers, under their officers' command, halted and aimed their muskets.
"Fire—"
A rapid crackle of musket fire immediately erupted, and gunsmoke enveloped the entire battlefield.
Over thirty Poles fell instantly, but the entire infantry line remained motionless. Soldiers only flinched slightly when the gunsmoke drifted into their faces.
The Russian infantry line advanced again, fired a volley, and continued to advance...
Soon, the two sides were less than 40 paces apart. The Poles had stoically withstood four volleys, nearly 300 soldiers hit and killed, yet they still hadn't moved.
'They are enduring.'
'Waiting.'
'Waiting for the moment of vengeance.'
The Russian commander nervously watched the silent Polish positions, then raised a hand and gave the order:
"Advance seven paces!"
As the Russian soldiers marched five paces forward to the beat of the drums, the Poles suddenly moved.
Kościuszko, mounted behind the infantry line, raised his saber and declared loudly:
"Aim—"
The flintlock muskets along the entire infantry line simultaneously swished upwards.
"Fire—"
The soldiers, in grim silence, pulled their triggers.
Thousands of dark muzzles simultaneously spewed flames. The opposing Russian infantry line was struck as if by an invisible giant's fist, and blood and flesh sprayed everywhere.
With just one volley, the Polish muskets took down over 300 Russian soldiers, instantly making up for their previous losses.
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