Chapter 725: The Final Showdown
"Boom! Boom!"
Several cannonballs flew from the city walls, bursting mid-air into dozens of iron balls the size of goose eggs, raining down onto the Polish artillery positions.
Szwiecicki could hear the cannonballs whistling past his head, the friction of metal against air sending a sharp, grating sensation through his ears.
But he did not move an inch. Instead, he quickly assessed his artillery losses and shouted to the messenger behind him:
"No. 2 cannon's fuse operator, No. 4 cannon's commander and loader, No. 5 cannon's..."
The messenger relayed the orders, and reserve artillerymen immediately stepped up to replace the fallen.
Even Szwiecicki himself had a designated replacement—if he were to be shot, Lieutenant Colonel Dorlan would take over.
But the cannons—those must not retreat even half a step!
And so, as the 24-pounder fired its 27th shot, surrounded by fallen soldiers, the eastern wall of Bakhchisarai finally crumbled with a thunderous crash.
Relief flashed across Szwiecicki's face. He turned and waved his hand at the messenger.
No further words were needed. The battle plan had been set long ago.
Moments later, the rhythmic beat of war drums filled the air.
"Charge!"
"For the Motherland!"
"Kill the Russian dogs!"
Over a thousand Polish infantrymen roared like wild beasts, charging toward the breach in the wall, heedless of the bullets and cannon fire raining down upon them.
Trunikov, the Russian commander, hastily ordered his troops to defend the gap.
Soon, both sides clashed at the narrow opening, barely wide enough for four or five men to pass through at once. They cursed and fired at each other at point-blank range.
But after only three minutes, the Russians began to falter.
Then, gunfire suddenly rang out from behind the Russian defenders.
Three or four Russian soldiers screamed as bullets struck them in the back, sending them crashing to the ground.
Dozens of Ottoman rebels, shouting in their native tongue, had taken positions behind houses and trees inside the city, firing upon the Russians.
The Russian troops instinctively turned to return fire—an opening the Polish soldiers seized immediately.
More than a dozen Polish soldiers leaped through the breach in the wall.
Not long after, the cannons atop the city walls fell silent one by one.
The Polish artillery crews exchanged glances before erupting into cheers. Then, without hesitation, they drove iron spikes into the touch holes of the enemy cannons, rendering them useless.
Arming themselves with muskets, they charged toward the breach, shouting battle cries.
By 2 PM, Trunikov, along with the 400 remaining Russian soldiers and a handful of Russian officials, abandoned the city and fled south.
Szwiecicki and his brave soldiers had taken Bakhchisarai in just seven and a half hours.
Gazing upon what was once the capital of the Crimean Khanate, Szwiecicki began discussing with his officers how to inflict maximum damage on the city in the shortest time possible.
Then, he noticed thick black smoke rising from the northern part of town.
A messenger soon arrived with a report—Ottoman rebels were slaughtering Russian nobles and setting their houses ablaze.
Szwiecicki hesitated for a moment, then smiled and turned to his officers.
"Perfect. The Ottomans are the best people for the job."
Although most of Crimea's population consisted of Cossacks from southern Russia, the Ottomans had ruled the region for centuries.
Though they were now a minority, they still carried the pride of their former rulers.
Ever since Potemkin led the Russian conquest of Crimea, the Ottomans had been reduced to second-class citizens, discriminated against and oppressed.
Now, with the Russian garrison gone, their pent-up fury of nearly a decade erupted like wildfire.
After a brief pause, Szwiecicki ordered:
"Have the men rest and recover as quickly as possible. We march at dawn."
"Yes, Captain," an officer nodded. Then he asked, "Are we reinforcing General Kościuszko?"
"No," Szwiecicki replied, looking eastward. "If the general knew what was happening here, he would not want us to go to him. We're heading for Kaffa Port!"
Kaffa, located at the easternmost tip of Crimea, was a crucial transit hub between the Sea of Azov and the Black Sea—second only to Bakhchisarai in strategic importance.
At sunrise the next day, 1,700 Polish soldiers marched eastward, their orderly ranks illuminated by the glow of the burning city behind them.
"Maintain formation spacing!"
The steady murmur of the Salgir River accompanied the voices of Polish officers as they made final adjustments to the infantry lines.
These two battle lines stood close to the western bank of the river—less than 200 paces from the water's edge.
General Kościuszko had positioned his troops here not for some desperate "fight to the death" to boost morale—any soldier who had followed him this deep into Russian territory had no shortage of courage.
No, he had chosen this position to prevent the Russians from using their superior numbers to flank him from behind.
Here, he would fight Kakhovsky in a fair and direct confrontation.
After suffering heavy losses the previous day, Kakhovsky was far more cautious.
The Russian troops advanced carefully, maintaining tight formations so that each unit could provide immediate support to the others.
Not until 10:30 AM did they finally see the Polish banners fluttering by the riverbank.
The first shots came from the Russians' four cannons.
Their cannonballs arced over the heads of the Polish skirmishers at the front, smashing into the thin infantry lines behind them, sending blood and debris flying.
Yet, the Polish soldiers stood firm, like a grove of birch trees bending in the wind. The storm might break them—but it would never make them retreat.
Twenty minutes later, the artillery barrage ceased.
The Russians launched a full-scale assault, led by two elite grenadier battalions.
As their skirmishers exchanged scattered musket fire, the two infantry lines—one gray, long, and thick; the other white, short, and thin—drew ever closer.
At last, when they were just 70 paces apart, the Russian officers shouted their orders:
"Aim—fire!"
The battlefield erupted in a thunderous volley. Smoke engulfed the lines.
More than thirty Polish soldiers fell instantly, but the line did not waver.
The only movement came when the smoke drifted into their faces, causing them to briefly frown.
The Russian infantry advanced again. Another volley. More Polish soldiers fell.
Then another.
And another.
Now only 40 paces separated the two armies.
The Poles had endured four volleys, losing nearly 300 men.
Yet they still did not move.
They were waiting.
Waiting for their moment.
Waiting for revenge.
The Russian commander nervously eyed the eerily silent Polish line, then raised his hand and ordered:
"Advance—seven paces!"
The Russian soldiers took five steps forward, marching to the steady beat of the drums.
Then—
The Poles moved.
General Kościuszko, mounted behind the lines, raised his saber high and shouted:
"Aim—"
A sharp, synchronized motion swept through the Polish ranks as hundreds of muskets snapped into position.
"Fire!"
Silent and disciplined, the Polish soldiers pulled their triggers.
Thousands of muskets erupted in flames.
The Russian front line was struck as if by an invisible giant's fist—bodies were torn apart, blood filled the air.
In a single volley, the Poles had wiped out more than 300 Russian soldiers, repaying their losses in full.
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