Chapter 681: Eastern Europe in Flames, Part VIII
Janik's ribs were broken, and his thigh had been slashed deeply. His entire body felt as limp as a wet rag.
He struggled to lift his head, locking eyes with a Cossack cavalryman about 20 paces away. The man was equally incapacitated, cursing incessantly in Russian.
Janik spat toward him and noticed out of the corner of his eye that a cannon crewman half-lying on a dead horse appeared to move.
"Sergeant, are you alright?" Janik called out.
The artilleryman slowly turned his head, taking several moments before weakly responding, "For now... I might live."
Janik could now see that half the man's face was gone. A strip of flesh hanging from his nose swayed with each labored breath.
"I think… we held them off," Janik muttered.
The artilleryman wheezed, "Yes… the cannons are still ours…"
Suddenly, his body tensed. He frantically raised his arm, pointing downhill. His voice cracked as he exclaimed, "There! Over there!"
Janik followed his gaze and felt his heart drop. Two Russian cavalrymen who had fallen earlier were climbing back onto their horses.
"A gun! Where's a gun?!"
Panicked, Janik looked around and spotted a musket lying a short distance away. He began crawling toward it when the artilleryman rasped, "It's useless. At best, you'll kill one."
Janik froze. In his condition, it was likely he wouldn't hit either target.
"What do we do? What do we do?!" His heart pounded, each beat a painful reminder of his desperation.
They had fought so hard, killing every Russian cavalryman. Now, when no one else could fight, two survivors threatened to undo everything.
Just one of them could disable the cannon.
"No… no, this can't be!"
The artilleryman's eyes lit up as an idea struck him. He gestured weakly toward the cannon behind Janik.
"Look! The barrel is pointed right at them.
"It's already loaded with gunpowder. Grab a grapeshot, load it in, and when those bastards get close, fire the cannon. You might take out both."
"Yes, the cannon… the grapeshot…"
Janik scrambled toward a nearby ammunition crate, his fingers fumbling with the latch.
"Which one?" he shouted.
"The gray one wrapped in cloth!"
"Got it."
He grabbed the grapeshot, but the effort sent a searing pain through his broken ribs. His vision blurred as he gasped for air. Every breath felt like a knife twisting in his chest.
Gritting his teeth, he dragged the projectile toward the cannon. The sound of hooves grew louder—they were climbing the hill.
Janik let out a guttural scream, pushing himself to his knees. Blood poured from his thigh as he strained to lift the heavy grapeshot.
"Lord, grant me strength!"
Using his neck and shoulder to support the weight, he hoisted the shot above his head, inching it closer to the barrel.
"Hurry!" the artilleryman urged, his voice trembling with urgency.
With one last burst of effort, Janik slid the grapeshot into the cannon. He used his arm to push it deeper, unable to find the ramrod.
"Insert the fuse! It's on the side of the barrel!"
"It's already in!" Janik replied, staggering toward the smoldering lighting rod behind the cannon. But his legs gave out, and he collapsed to the ground.
The world spun around him. His last conscious thought was a desperate plea: I cannot pass out… not now…
"What are you doing?!" The artilleryman's frantic voice cracked as blood seeped from his mouth. "Light it! Light the cannon!"
But there was no movement beside the cannon.
The two Cossack cavalrymen reached the hilltop, spotting the undefended cannon. Their eyes gleamed as though they had found an unguarded treasure.
As they dismounted, a small, brown-haired head appeared on the opposite side of the hill.
A little boy struggled up the slope, freezing in terror as he stared at the blood-soaked battlefield.
If Janik had been conscious, he would have recognized him as Kach, the younger brother of the girl killed by Russian artillery days earlier.
The artilleryman's eyes widened. He shouted at the boy:
"Kid! Grab that smoking stick! Light the cannon's fuse! Quickly!"
Kach hesitated, his eyes darting to Janik lying near the cannon. Then, summoning all his courage, he stepped toward the smoldering lighting rod.
The Russian cavalrymen realized what he was doing and frantically tried to turn their horses. But horses don't pivot as quickly as men.
Guided by the artilleryman's shouts, Kach thrust the burning stick against the fuse.
With a hiss, sparks disappeared into the cannon.
An earth-shattering roar followed.
The recoil knocked Kach onto his back, while the two Cossack cavalrymen vanished in an instant. Their horses' upper halves were shredded by the grapeshot, the remains tumbling down the hillside.
"Haha…"
The artilleryman chuckled twice before choking on blood. He coughed violently, then slumped lifelessly against a horse carcass.
Ten Minutes Later
The cannons at Zagozdek village resumed firing on the Russian lines.
The Russian advance, which had briefly gained momentum during the pause, was once again brought to a halt by a relentless barrage.
New Polish soldiers had replaced Drasowicz, Janik, and the others on the front lines. Like their predecessors, they stood resolute, trading fire with the Russians without hesitation.
Finally, unable to bear the mounting casualties, the Russian infantry began to retreat.
The ferocity of the Polish defense—its utter disregard for death—had left a deep psychological scar on the Russian soldiers.
The Polish troops surged over the breastwork, pursuing the retreating Russians with triumphant shouts.
The following day, the Russians' attacks significantly weakened, while the Polish recruits, galvanized by their survival, fought with newfound confidence, repelling them at every turn.
But Drasowicz would never see this victory.
He would never return to his Marilena and Feodor.
Perhaps one day, his children would tell their own grandchildren the story of how their grandfather had given his life to stop the Russian cavalry.
Two Days Later
Janik and his unit retreated to the town of Marecze.
His regiment had held out for an entire day longer than planned. Along the extended Mozyr defensive line, countless battles like the one at Zagozdek played out.
The Russian Polish Front Army, originally tasked with taking Mozyr in five days, had barely breached its first line of defense.
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