Chapter 679: The Burning East Europe, Part 6
The Russian fire was heavier than that of the Poles, with more accurate shots tearing through the defenders.
By the time the Russian infantry line reached within 40 paces of the eastern breastworks of Zagazdek Village, the Polish positions were already showing multiple gaps.
The reinforcements arriving from the rear were growing fewer and fewer.
Not far away, an officer on the village's clock tower lowered his telescope and spoke anxiously to Lieutenant Colonel Lubinska, who was in charge of the Zagazdek defense.
"Colonel, if we don't send in the reserves soon, the defensive line is at risk of collapse given these casualties."
Lubinska furrowed his brow. He knew his aide wasn't exaggerating. But the 300 reserve soldiers were the last force under his command.
And today was only the first day of the war.
If he committed the reserves now, he would be out of options for holding Zagazdek Village for the three days required. General Kosciuszko had made it clear: the Russians must be drawn into a grueling siege if the overall battle plan was to succeed.
Lubinska took a deep breath and responded gravely, "I trust them."
The Russian gunfire intensified. Within minutes, their stretched-out infantry formations had advanced to just over 30 paces from the Polish defensive line.
"Don't be afraid!" shouted Drasowicz, his voice hoarse but unwavering. "Behind us is our homeland!"
It was a phrase he had heard during a speech by members of the Bar Confederation last month.
That day, he had listened to many stirring words but only remembered this line.
Behind him lay not just his country but his son and daughter.
The invaders would not pass here—unless it was over his dead body.
The recruits around him took up his cry.
"Protect our homeland!"
"For the motherland, fight to the end!"
The Russian infantry line fired, and two or three dozen Polish defenders immediately fell.
But the remaining Polish soldiers returned the volley with their own coordinated fire.
Though their aim wasn't perfect, the Russians suffered nearly thirty casualties.
The chest-high breastwork provided limited protection for the Polish defenders, but it was their only advantage.
The Russian officers were rallying their troops loudly, spurring them forward with the confidence that their superior numbers and better-trained infantry could overwhelm the Polish line.
In just seven or eight minutes, dozens of volleys were exchanged.
The formations on both sides became increasingly disorganized. The intensity of the gunfire left neither side any time to clear the bodies or effectively replace fallen soldiers.
From his position in the Russian command post three kilometers away, General Morkov observed the Polish defenses through his telescope.
He turned to his aide and said, "Order the supply wagons to prepare. Zagazdek Village will soon be ours. By 2:30, we'll launch the attack on Marece, and we'll need plenty of ammunition for that."
From his vantage point, Morkov could see that the Polish defenders had already lost at least a fifth of their numbers. Even the mighty Russian army would start to falter under such losses, let alone the comparatively weaker Poles.
To his credit, Morkov considered praising the Polish army. If it had been the Ottomans, they likely would have surrendered the moment his infantry line came within 40 paces.
"Poor Poles," he said with a wry smile, shaking his head. "How long can you hold out? Twenty minutes? Maybe until Stepanov's flank begins their attack?"
Meanwhile, the brutal firefight continued at Zagazdek.
Polish soldiers continued to fall, and the survivors were pinned down under relentless Russian gunfire.
Yet, contrary to Morkov's expectations, this army of mostly raw recruits was neither retreating nor showing signs of breaking.
Yes, they were nervous, disorganized, and scared. But not a single soldier was running.
Their souls had been bound together by the idea of the Polish nation.
This was no mere gathering of individuals; it was Poland itself standing against the invaders.
None would surrender the land they cherished so deeply.
With their faith bolstered by the ideals of the Crusade, these men saw life and death as mere trifles.
Their only goal was to defend their homeland under God's watchful gaze, giving their last drop of blood if necessary.
Even if no one else remained behind the breastworks, each of them was determined to stand and fight alone.
By now, all the officers in Drasowicz's company had been killed. Muttering the rhythm of a drumbeat under his breath, he shouted:
"Aim—!"
No one questioned his command. The seventy soldiers still standing raised their muskets in unison.
"Fire—!"
Drasowicz's hoarse shout pierced through the battlefield, carrying the force of dozens of lead bullets slamming into the Russian infantry line. Six men, including their drummer, were torn apart, their bodies left in a bloody mess.
The Russian officers were stunned to see that despite heavy casualties, the Polish defenders showed no signs of wavering. On the contrary, it was their own soldiers who began to falter and retreat.
Several Russian captains fired into the ranks, killing six or seven retreating soldiers to restore order.
Just then, a cold smile crept onto the face of the Russian infantry commander. From the northwest, the sound of galloping hooves reached his ears.
"They're scared! Look, the bastards are breaking!" Drasowicz bellowed, noticing some Russian soldiers falling back. His shout rallied his comrades.
But at that moment, a cry rang out from the left flank:
"Cavalry incoming! Watch out!"
The captain of the 7th Infantry Company turned his head sharply and saw a squad of over 40 Cossack cavalrymen advancing. They were moving stealthily under the cover of Russian skirmishers, skirting the northernmost edge of the defensive line.
Behind the defensive line lay the Polish artillery positions.
Although there were only two cannons, they had proven devastating, accounting for at least a quarter of the Russian casualties so far.
Drasowicz, a mere soldier, had no way of knowing about the intense diversions, feints, and skirmishes happening across other parts of the battlefield. But he did understand one thing: though 40 cavalrymen couldn't break the infantry line, they could destroy the cannons.
The captain of the 7th Company drew his sword and shouted:
"Follow me to protect the cannons! Only veterans—move quickly!"
Drasowicz immediately ran toward him and waved at Janik.
"You're coming too!"
"Got it!"
The captain led over 30 veteran soldiers toward the artillery positions. That was the maximum number of men he could afford to pull from the defensive line. Any more, and the line would collapse.
Drasowicz sprinted with all his might, but despair was creeping into his heart. He remembered that the artillery position was guarded by only about a dozen soldiers. By the time they arrived, surely the cannons would already have been destroyed by the Cossacks.
Fifteen minutes later, the captain and his men reached the artillery position—and were relieved to see the cannons still firing.
"Where are the enemy cavalry?" the captain barked at the nearest artilleryman.
"Held off over there," the gunner replied, pointing northeast.
The captain looked and saw, 200 paces away, a small group of men taking cover in two dilapidated farmhouses. They were fiercely engaged in a firefight with the Cossack cavalry.
No, "fierce" wasn't the right word. There were far too few defenders left; most had already been killed. Sporadic gunshots echoed from behind the crumbling buildings.
"Who's holding them off?" the captain asked, frowning. He knew that the dozen or so soldiers assigned to guard the artillery position could never have stalled the Cossacks for so long.
The artilleryman, lifting a cannonball and heading toward the cannon's mouth, answered in a low voice:
"Father Staszak... along with the cobblers and blacksmiths."
In this era, armies couldn't function for long without these craftsmen. They repaired boots and firearms, vital to the army's operations.
The village of Zagazdek had 12 cobblers and 10 blacksmiths.
It was these craftsmen, alongside Father Staszak and 14 soldiers, who had held the line with their lives, delaying the Russian cavalry for nearly 20 minutes.
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