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Chapter 726: The Homeland is Proud of You

"Don't just stand there! Raise your rifles!"

The Russian officer roared at his dazed soldiers, who had just taken a heavy blow, his horsewhip cracking repeatedly.

Across the field, Kosciuszko also bellowed:

"Reload!"

The Russian forces, being elite grenadiers after all, quickly snapped out of their stupor amidst the officers' curses, frantically raised their rifles, and fired a somewhat ragged volley.

Still, it was a close-range volley from over eight thousand flintlock muskets, and the Polish infantry line was instantly riddled with holes.

Yet, the Poles remained like unfeeling statues, silently reloading and raising their rifles once more.

"Fire!" Kosciuszko's saber swept downwards.

A flash of light instantly stretched to the riverbank's edge. A storm of lead shot flew across the short distance of thirty paces, savagely tearing into the Russians, producing a succession of sickening thuds.

When the Russian commander ordered "Advance five paces!", most of the Russian soldiers remained rooted, gazing in horror at the bloody corpses around them and the gravely wounded men writhing and wailing on the ground.

Immediately after, the Polish infantry line uniformly advanced five paces!

With a gap of just over twenty paces, the two sides were practically face-to-face.

The Russian soldiers disregarded all commands, instinctively firing at their opponents, attempting to drive back these terrifying foes.

What greeted them, however, was another Polish volley.

A storm of lead swept through, and the Russians broke, their screams rising and falling.

Starting from the southernmost flank, soldiers dropped their weapons and turned to flee, the panic rapidly spreading across the entire infantry line. The officers found themselves completely unable to restrain them and were forced to join the rout.

Almost simultaneously, hundreds of red-clad Winged Hussars galloped into the battlefield, herding and slaughtering the fleeing enemy.

There were no cheers among the Polish ranks. Everyone silently checked their weapons and ammunition, or collected the bodies of fallen comrades, only occasionally glancing up at the Winged Hussars who were annihilating the enemy in the distance.

They had repelled the enemy through sheer iron will, but at a heavy cost of over eight hundred casualties.

They knew the battle had only just begun; they would have to hold out for at least an entire day.

Behind the Russian lines, Kakhovsky lowered his telescope, his face ashen.

He had anticipated the Poles would be tenacious, but he had never imagined his own troops would be routed so swiftly.

Fortunately, he had come thoroughly prepared this time.

He exhaled, telling his aide-de-camp, "Send in Dubinin's Corps."

"Yes, General!"

Half an hour later, the second line of Russian infantry began to advance, letting their retreating comrades pass, and gradually pressed into the center of the battlefield.

Soon, the opposing infantry lines closed in once more, exchanging fire just as before.

The battlefield Kosciuszko had chosen offered little room for maneuver; this was almost the only way to engage.

Flashes of gunfire.

Lead shot.

Gunsmoke.

Dying wails.

And corpses.

For a time, only these things remained by the Salhir River, and the entire world seemed to echo with Death's ceaseless cackles.

Six o'clock in the evening.

When Kosciuszko committed his last reserves and repelled the fifth Russian assault, dusk finally settled completely.

Death receded into the night, and the Salhir River's banks returned to their usual stillness.

The Polish soldiers carefully arranged their fallen comrades' bodies along the riverbank, as the accompanying chaplain softly offered prayers for the dead.

Kosciuszko lay half-reclined on a blanket, gazing up at the starry sky, and spoke to Dombrowski:

"Bakhchysarai should be dealt with by now, shouldn't it?"

"Hm." The latter took a swig of diluted medical alcohol, nodded, and then smacked his lips. "That old woman will be lamenting this for years."

"If only I could see Warsaw again," Kosciuszko murmured, turning his head. "My grandson will be born soon."

Dombrowski clapped him firmly on the shoulder. "He will always be proud of you."

Kosciuszko took the glass bottle from his hand and drank. "God grant he lives in an age without war."

"Yes, that's why we're here..."

The following morning.

The Russian forces wasted no time, launching a full-scale assault immediately.

Kosciuszko now had only five thousand soldiers left by his side.

The battle quickly intensified. After several rounds of fierce exchanges with over ten thousand Russian troops, more than a thousand Cossack Cavalry appeared on the right flank of the Polish line formation.

This time, no Winged Hussars advanced to intercept them; most of their warhorses had been exhausted in the previous day's fighting, forcing them to dismount and join the infantry ranks.

Kosciuszko immediately led his personal guard to reinforce the right flank.

Just as he gripped his bayonet-fixed flintlock musket and loudly encouraged his soldiers to hold formation, a cannonball violently slammed down a little over ten paces away.

The black iron sphere struck something unknown, veering eerily to the left, and whizzed past Kosciuszko's side.

Kosciuszko instantly felt his body lurch forward, and a patch of moss on the ground rapidly magnified in his vision...

Eleven o'clock in the morning.

Three thousand bloodied Polish soldiers, having exhausted all their ammunition, were surrounded by the Russian army on the riverbank.

The highest-ranking Polish officer present stepped forward and, following Kosciuszko's earlier orders, surrendered to Kakhovsky.

However, they had previously burned all their regimental standards, so during the simple surrender ceremony, the Russians did not obtain any Polish flags as spoils of war.

...

Northeastern Poland.

Minsk.

Suvorov rode his horse along the broad avenue in front of Minsk's Cathedral of the Holy Spirit, narrowing his eyes with evident pleasure as he savored the angry glares from the Poles around him.

Bielak, the commander of the Lithuanian garrison, was no match for him.

After learning that a Russian force was moving toward Novogrudok, Bielak misjudged Suvorov's tactical intent, believing he was attempting to outflank Drahichyn.

Consequently, Bielak dispatched an elite infantry division to defend Novogrudok, leaving Minsk critically undermanned.

Suvorov immediately seized this opening, concentrated his superior forces, and swiftly breached Minsk's defenses from the north.

Presently, Bielak's corps had retreated to Vilnius in the west; though they could rely on the Vilna Fortress there, the Russians could simply disregard him and truly bypass them via Novogrudok.

In that scenario, Bielak would be forced to sally forth from Vilnius and engage the Russian army in open battle.

Suddenly, a young man squeezed through a gap in the Russian soldiers lining the road, forcefully hurled a stone at Suvorov, and bellowed:

"Go back to Russia, you devil!"

Suvorov ducked, evading the stone, and frowned at Tormasov. "It seems there are many rebels defying the Tsar in this city. Find them all and execute them."

"Yes, Marshal!"

Just after the young man was dragged away, a Russian officer caught up to Suvorov from behind, saluted, and handed him a battle report.

Suvorov smiled as he unfolded the report, then his expression instantly turned grim.

It read: 'General Kakhovsky has annihilated the Kosciuszko Legion. However, the costs include the capture of Bakhchysarai and the burning of Kaffa Port. Furthermore, Kakhovsky's Corps suffered heavy casualties and will require approximately six months to recuperate.'