Chapter 816: Chapter 724: The Final Showdown (Top Recommendation, Please Follow)

“Bang, bang—-”

Several cannonballs flew from the top of the city walls, breaking apart midair into dozens of iron spheres the size of goose eggs, sweeping across the Polish artillery position below in an instant.

Swiechczyk heard the cannonballs whizzing over his head, the sound of the iron spheres cutting through the air stabbing his ears with sharp discomfort.

Nonetheless, he did not move a single step but instead assessed the artillery losses as quickly as possible and shouted loudly to the order officer behind him, “Gunner for cannon number 2, captain and loader for cannon number 4, loader for cannon number 5…”

As the order officer relayed the commands to the rear, several reserve gunners immediately stepped forward to take their positions.

In truth, even Swiechczyk himself had a substitute. If he were struck, Lieutenant Colonel Dolan would replace him.

However, the cannons could not withdraw–not by an inch!

Thus, as that 24-pound cannon fired its 27th shell with soldiers’ corpses strewn all around it, an eastern section of Bakhchisaray City finally collapsed with a thunderous crash.

A smile of relief flickered in Swiechczyk’s eyes as he turned and waved to the order officer.

There was no need for him to say more; battle plans had long been set. Drums beat furiously from all directions.

“Charge!”

“For the fatherland!”

“Kill those Russian bastards!”

More than a thousand Polish infantry roared as if they were enraged wild beasts, surging toward the breach in the city walls under a hailstorm of bullets and artillery shells.

Trunikov hurriedly ordered the Russian soldiers to defend the gap.

Soon, the two sides clashed at the narrow breach that allowed only four or five men to pass abreast, shouting curses and firing rifles at each other.

But it only lasted three minutes before the Russians began to retreat under the fierce pressure.

Just then, gunfire erupted from behind the Russian soldiers defending the gap. Three or four Russians were instantly shot in the back, collapsing to the ground.

Dozens of resistance fighters within the city shouted in Ottoman, hiding behind houses and trees as they fired upon them relentlessly.

The Russian soldiers instinctively turned to retaliate, and a dozen Polish soldiers nearest the gap seized this opportunity to leap inside the city walls…

Not long after, the Russian cannons on the city walls ceased firing one after another.

The Polish artillerymen exchanged glances and let out cheers. They swiftly nailed down the cannon barrels, toppled the artillery, and took up their flintlock guns, shouting as they charged toward the breach in the walls.

By around two o’clock in the afternoon, Trunikov and his surviving 400 Russian soldiers, along with a dozen Russian officials, abandoned the city and fled southward.

Swiechczyk and his courageous men had taken Bakhchisaray in just seven and a half hours.

Swiechczyk surveyed the former capital of the Crimean Khanate and discussed with his staff how to inflict the maximum destruction in the shortest time when he suddenly noticed thick black smoke rising from the north of the city.

Soon, an officer reported to him that the Ottoman resistance fighters were slaughtering the Russian nobles and setting their homes ablaze.

Swiechczyk paused briefly, then broke into a smile and turned to his staff, saying, “Indeed, the Ottomans are the most suited for this destruction.”

Although most of Crimea’s residents were Cossacks from southern Russia, the Ottoman Empire had ruled this territory for centuries. Their population may have been small, but they carried the pride of a dominant class.

Ever since Potemkin led his army to occupy Crimea, however, the Ottomans had become a despised and inferior group.

Now, with no Russian forces left stationed in the city, their decade-long fury erupted instantly.

Swiechczyk deliberated briefly and told his staff, “Let the soldiers rest and recover as quickly as possible. We move out at dawn tomorrow.”

The staff officer asked, “Are we reinforcing General Kosciuszko?”

“No,” Swiechczyk shook his head, gazing eastward, “I believe if the general knows what’s happening here, he would prefer us not to reinforce him. We’re heading to Kafa Harbor!”

Kafa, situated on the easternmost tip of Crimea, served as a crucial transit point between the Azov and Black Seas. It was, aside from Bakhchisaray, the most significant location in Crimea.

Early the next morning, 1,700 Polish soldiers marched eastward in orderly ranks, illuminated by the blazes of Bakhchisaray City.

…

“Maintain the spacing in the lines!”

Accompanied by the murmuring flow of the Sarygol River, Polish officers adjusted the final formations of the infantry lines.

The two infantry lines were positioned close to the west bank of the river, less than 200 paces away from the Sarygol River behind them.

General Kosciuszko deployed his forces here not to inspire zeal for a “battle with one’s back to the river”–any soldier willing to venture deep into Russia alongside him already carried impeccable morale–but to prevent Russian forces from using their numerical superiority to flank them from behind.

He sought a straightforward, head-on confrontation with Kahovski here.

Having suffered setbacks the previous day, Kahovski clearly approached with greater caution.

The Russian forces advanced carefully and slowly, maintaining distances between divisions that allowed for immediate mutual support. Not until half-past ten in the morning did they finally spot Polish banners near the riverbank.

The Russians’ four cannons roared first.

Shells flew over the heads of Polish skirmishers at the front, embedding into the thin infantry lines behind and erupting into showers of blood.

Yet the Polish infantry lines stood like a grove of birch trees in the wind–straight and unyielding. The fierce gale might break them, but not move them.

After twenty minutes, the bombardment ceased.

The Russians launched a full-scale attack using two elite grenadier battalions as their core.

As scattered skirmishing fire began probing at the Polish forces, the gray and white infantry lines drew increasingly close. The gray line was long and solid, the white short and slender.

Finally, at about 70 paces apart, the Russian soldiers halted at their officers’ command, raised their rifles, and aimed.

“Fire–”

A burst of dense, firecracker-like gunshots filled the air, enveloping the battlefield in smoke.

The Polish soldiers in front crumpled, more than 30 falling instantly, but the infantry line stood immovable. Soldiers only furrowed their brows slightly when smoke drifted onto their faces.

The Russian infantry line resumed its advance, fired another volley, and moved forward again…

Soon, the distance between the two sides diminished to less than 40 paces. The Polish soldiers endured four volleys, losing close to 300 men, but still held firm.

The Russian commanders nervously eyed the eerily silent Polish lines and ordered a cautious advance: “Move forward seven paces!”

When the Russian soldiers stepped forward five paces to the beat of the drums, the Polish line finally stirred.

General Kosciuszko, riding on horseback behind the infantry line, raised his sword high and said firmly, “Aim–”

Over 5,000 flintlocks snapped upwards simultaneously.

“Fire–”

The soldiers silently squeezed their triggers.

Flames burst from the dark muzzles almost in unison, as if an invisible giant struck the Russian infantry line with a crushing blow, sending blood and flesh flying everywhere.

With just one volley, over 300 Russians fell. The Poles had avenged the losses they had just incurred.