Chapter 817: Chapter 725: The Motherland is Proud of You (Up for Recommendation, Please Follow)

“Don’t just stand there! Raise your guns!”

The Russian officer shouted at the soldiers who were stunned by the fierce assault, his whip falling relentlessly.

Opposite him, Kosciuszko also yelled at the top of his lungs, “Reload!”

The Russian army, being elite grenadiers, quickly regained composure under the officer’s reprimands. Hastily, they raised their guns and fired a somewhat disjointed volley.

Yet, over 8,000 flintlock guns fired at close range–instantly riddling the Polish infantry line with holes.

However, the Poles stood like unfeeling sculptures, silently completing their reloading, and lifted their guns once again.

“Fire!” Kosciuszko’s sword slashed downward.

Blazing fire stretched instantly to the riverbank’s edge, dense lead bullets traveled the short distance of merely 30 steps, cruelly burrowing into the Russian bodies, producing a string of sickening sounds.

400 fell on the spot, hit and crumpling to the ground.

When the Russian commander ordered, “Move forward 5 steps,” most Russian soldiers hesitated, unnerved by the mutilated corpses beside them, or by those writhing in agony, not yet dead.

Meanwhile, the Polish infantry line uniformly advanced 5 steps!

The distance of less than 20 steps now brought them face-to-face.

The Russian soldiers abandoned commands instinctively, firing at the horrifying enemies ahead, desperate to scatter them.

What met them was yet another Polish volley.

The storm of lead swept through, and Russians collapsed amidst gut-wrenching screams, their formation crumbling.

From the southernmost side of the line, soldiers threw down their weapons and turned to flee–a panic that soon engulfed the entire infantry line. Officers failed to reel them in, opting instead to run alongside them.

Almost immediately, hundreds of red-clad figures, adorned with winged banners, rode into the battlefield, chasing down and slaughtering the routed enemy.

No cheers came from the Polish troops; they silently inspected their weapons and ammunition or tended to their fallen comrades. Occasionally, glances flickered toward the distant winged cavalry mercilessly dismantling the enemy.

They had relied on ironclad willpower to push back the enemy but at the cost of more than 800 lives.

They understood that the battle was far from over–they had to hold out for at least an entire day.

Behind the Russian ranks, General Kahovski put down his telescope, his face grim.

He had anticipated fierce resistance from the Poles, but he hadn’t expected his forces to collapse so swiftly.

Fortunately, he had prepared thoroughly this time.

Exhaling deeply, he instructed the order officer, “Deploy Dubinin’s corps to the front.”

“Yes, General!”

Half an hour later, the second Russian infantry line began advancing, bypassing their retreating comrades to occupy the center of the battlefield.

Soon, the opposing infantry lines came close once more, beginning another round of firefights, resembling the prior engagement.

Kosciuszko had chosen this battleground, which offered little space for maneuvering; direct clashes were nearly inevitable.

Firelight.

Lead bullets.

Smoke.

Agonized death cries.

And corpses.

For a time, the banks of the Sarygol River consisted solely of these–the entire world reduced to the devil’s maniacal laughter.

6 PM.

After Kosciuszko deployed his final reserve troops and repelled the Russians’ fifth assault, night finally fell.

Death receded into the shadows, and the banks of the Sarygol River resumed their usual silence.

Polish soldiers laid their comrades’ bodies neatly along the riverbank, while the priest quietly intoned prayers for the departed souls.

Kosciuszko reclined half-miserably atop a blanket, gazing upward at the starlit sky, speaking to East Brovsky, “Bakhchisaray City should be handled by now, shouldn’t it?”

“Yes.” East Brovsky swallowed a mouthful of diluted medical alcohol, nodded, and smacked his lips, saying, “It’ll surely make that old woman mourn for years.”

“How I wish to return to Warsaw just once,” Kosciuszko turned his head, “My grandson will soon be born.”

East Brovsky patted his shoulder forcefully: “He will forever be proud of you.”

Kosciuszko took the glass bottle from him and drank a mouthful. “May Jesus bless him with a life unmarred by war.”

“Indeed, that’s why we are here…”

The next morning.

The Russian army wasted no time, launching an all-out assault.

By now, Kosciuszko had only 5,000 soldiers left by his side.

The battle quickly boiled over, after several furious exchanges of gunfire, over a thousand Cossack cavalry suddenly appeared on the right flank of the Polish line.

There were no winged cavalry to intercept this time–their horses had mostly exhausted their energy in the previous day’s engagement, forcing them to dismount and join the infantry ranks.

Kosciuszko immediately led his guard troops to reinforce the right wing.

Just as he tightly gripped his flintlock gun affixed with a bayonet, rallying his soldiers to hold their formation, a cannonball abruptly smashed down just ten steps away.

The black iron sphere struck something, erratically veering left and whizzing past Kosciuszko’s side.

He felt his body lurch forward as the moss-covered ground zoomed into his perspective.

11 AM.

Three thousand blood-soaked Polish soldiers, having run out of all their ammunition, were surrounded by Russians on the riverbank.

The highest-ranking Polish officer on-site stepped forward, adhering to Kosciuszko’s prior orders, surrendering to Kahovski.

They had, however, burned all their banners beforehand, so in the simple surrender ceremony, the Russians gained no Polish flags as trophies.

…

Northeastern Poland.

Minsk.

Suvorov rode along the spacious boulevard in front of Minsk’s Holy Spirit Cathedral, savoring the fury-filled stares from the surrounding Poles, narrowing his eyes in satisfaction.

Commander Bilak of the Lithuanian garrison was utterly outmatched.

Upon hearing that a Russian detachment was heading to New Glodok, Bilak misjudged Suvorov’s strategic intentions, thinking he aimed to flank Drosczin.

Thus, Bilak deployed an elite infantry division to defend New Glodok, leaving Minsk inadequately restocked with soldiers.

Suvorov seized the opportunity, concentrating superior forces to break through Minsk’s northern defenses swiftly.

Bilak’s corps had now retreated to the western city of Vilnius, which relied on the Vilino Fortress for defense. However, the Russians could bypass him entirely by proceeding to New Glodok.

At that stage, Bilak would have to pursue them from Vilnius, clashing with the Russians in open-field combat.

Suddenly, a young man elbowed through the ranks of Russian soldiers blocking the road’s edge, hurling a stone forcefully at Suvorov while shouting, “Go back to Russia, you devil!”

Suvorov ducked to dodge the stone, frowning as he turned to Tolmasov, “It appears there are plenty of insurgents in this town rebelling against the Tsar. Identify them all and execute them.”

“Yes, Marshal!”

Afterwards, 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 opened the report, but his face immediately grew dark.

It read: General Kahovski has annihilated Kosciuszko’s army. Simultaneously, losses include Bakhchisaray having been captured, and Kafa Harbor being set ablaze. Furthermore, Kahovski’s corps suffered heavy casualties, requiring recovery for the next six months.