Chapter 680: Eastern Europe in Flames, Part VII
At that moment, the gunfire near the farmhouse abruptly ceased.
Drasowicz turned to look and saw a dozen or so Russian cavalrymen swarming behind the farmhouse, using their sabers to prod the corpses of Father Staszak and the others. Whether it was out of anger or to ensure they were truly dead, he couldn't tell.
The other soldiers also saw this horrifying scene. They clenched their muskets tightly, their eyes blazing with rage.
"Those damned beasts!"
A soldier, his eyes bloodshot, roared: "Let's avenge the Father!"
"Yes! Kill those sons of bitches!"
"Stand down!" The 7th Company captain, his face ashen with fury, still stopped them and shouted, "Father Staszak's death must have meaning! We have to hold the cannons!"
Everyone fell silent.
Drasowicz gritted his teeth. "Captain, what are your orders?"
The captain quickly scanned the makeshift artillery position. It was a small knoll, slightly elevated, with a patch of trees behind it but little else for cover. The defensive chevaux-de-frise was hastily erected and far too sparse.
This meant the Russian cavalry could attack from multiple directions.
From a distance came the howling of the Cossacks.
The captain glanced at the cannon wheels, partially buried in the dirt for stability. Moving the cannons was out of the question.
With no time for deliberation, he issued commands:
"Twenty of the strongest men, fix bayonets, form a semicircle, and hold the line in front of the cannons.
"The rest, stay inside and fire from behind them.
"Karloslav, take a few men and move the chevaux-de-frise closer."
He then turned to the artillery commander: "Have your men pick up whatever weapons they can and join the fight."
"Understood, Captain. But we only have four muskets left."
The artillerymen had lent most of their guns to Father Staszak and his group.
"Then use rammers, long brushes—whatever you've got."
"Understood!"
The Cossack cavalry advanced swiftly, their wild cries echoing as they charged from the west side toward the artillery position.
Drasowicz bent his knees slightly, locking his musket stock against his hip, with the bayonet angled upward at 45 degrees.
The seasoned veterans around him needed no instruction, so he turned to the young Janik behind him:
"Steady yourself. The range on cavalry muskets is short. When they get close, aim carefully—you might only get one shot."
Janik, breathing heavily, nodded hard. "Understood."
Within minutes, the wolf-like Cossacks had closed to within 80-90 paces and began urging their horses into a gallop.
Ordinarily, cavalry would avoid a bayonet wall, instead skimming the edges to fire and harass. They'd regroup further out and return for another pass, seeking to create openings.
This time, however, the Russians saw that the defending infantry were few in number, stretched thin, and barely more than a single row deep. They decided to charge head-on.
The thunderous sound of hooves struck fear into the hearts of the Polish soldiers. Even the most battle-hardened veterans couldn't entirely suppress the primal terror of massive warhorses bearing down on them.
But the 20 Polish soldiers standing in a semicircle seemed rooted to the ground. Eyes wide and breaths held, they stood firm, unmoving.
With a deafening BOOM, one of the cannons fired.
Only one cannon could aim at the oncoming cavalry, but its grapeshot tore through the packed ranks, felling two horses and three riders in an explosion of blood and dust. The shot carved a gory path through the cavalry ranks.
The artillery crew worked frantically to reload, but the Cossacks had already reached the knoll. Their carbines barked, and two Polish soldiers crumpled, clutching their wounds.
"Hold your fire! Wait!" the captain barked repeatedly.
The riders closed to within 30 paces. Drawing their sabers, they let loose war cries as they charged.
Drasowicz could already smell the horses' foul breath when the captain finally shouted, "Fire!"
The muskets behind him erupted in flame. Six of the leading Cossacks fell, their bodies tumbling from their horses, tripping two more riders.
"Hold the line!" the captain roared.
A warhorse loomed before Drasowicz, its shadow blotting out the sun. Horses instinctively stopped short of the bayonets, but their riders did not. A Cossack raised his saber high, slashing down.
"Watch out!" a nearby soldier yelled, thrusting his bayonet forward just in time to pierce the Cossack's side. The rider let out a blood-curdling scream, tumbling from his horse.
"Thanks—" Drasowicz began, but a saber swung from the side, cutting deep into his savior's chest.
"No!" Drasowicz bellowed, tears of fury welling in his eyes. He lunged forward, bayonet ready, toward the Russian rider.
Behind him, Janik faced a mounted Cossack alone. Despite the overwhelming height advantage of the rider, Janik gritted his teeth and lunged upward, aiming for the man's abdomen even as the saber came down on him.
Elsewhere, Karloslav wrestled a Cossack to the ground, the two grappling and choking each other as they rolled down the slope.
An artilleryman jabbed a horse in the neck with a long ramrod, causing the terrified animal to buck and throw its rider. But moments later, a thrown hatchet embedded itself in the artilleryman's forehead.
A Polish soldier with a shattered leg dragged himself forward, hacking at a horse's leg with a scavenged saber—the highest point he could reach.
The Russians hadn't expected such fierce resistance. What should have been an easy breakthrough turned into a brutal, life-for-life struggle.
After just ten minutes, the knoll was littered with bodies. Blood and dismembered limbs painted the ground red. A few horses shifted uneasily, trying to shake off the dead men dangling from their saddles.
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