Chapter 724: The Siege
The importance of formation for cavalry cannot be overstated. A well-organized force fighting a disorganized one is like a father disciplining his son.
Dąbrowski led the Winged Hussars like a hot knife through butter, slicing effortlessly through the scattered ranks of the Cossack cavalry, tearing off a large chunk of the Russian horsemen.
Under the threat of the deadly lances, the Cossacks panicked and scattered in all directions.
Seeing this, Dąbrowski immediately ordered 300 light cavalrymen to chase down the largest fleeing group—once cavalry start breaking, even a couple of dogs could keep them running.
Meanwhile, he regrouped the Winged Hussars, pointed his saber at the Russian infantry in the center, and commanded in a deep voice:
"Break through them!"
The Russian central forces, exhausted from the relentless assault of the Third Royal Division, barely held their ground. They relied on their sheer numbers to maintain a thick battle line, engaging the Polish army in a firefight.
But then, the red-clad Winged Hussars appeared.
Their fluttering feathered wings seemed like heavy hammers, pounding on the hearts of the Russian soldiers.
The left flank of the Russian infantry hurriedly adjusted their formation, hastily arranging three ranks to face east in an attempt to counter the cavalry charge.
However, Russian training standards were already mediocre, and after a prolonged forced march, their exhaustion was evident. By the time Dąbrowski was upon them, their formation was still uneven and sloppy.
The Winged Hussars holstered their lances and drew their sabers.
Like a crimson wave, they surged past the Russian left flank. Their sabers, like brushes, painted the battlefield with splashes of vivid red.
In the rear, Kakhovsky soon received word that the Cossacks had been routed. His face darkened.
An experienced general, he wasted no time issuing orders—he immediately recalled the troops attempting a flanking maneuver and sent his last two squadrons of Royal Pronsk cavalry, about 300 horsemen, to delay the Polish charge.
These cavalry units had been his personal guards, but seeing the collapse of his central forces, he could no longer afford to keep them in reserve.
Finally, on his third charge against the Russian defenses, Dąbrowski found a rare opening.
More than ten Winged Hussars quickly pierced through a gap in the Russian lines, with their comrades following close behind, tearing the Russian left flank into uneven fragments.
The panic on the flank quickly spread through the entire infantry line.
Sensing the enemy's weakening firepower, the Third Royal Division intensified their assault. In a small section to the east, they even launched a bayonet charge.
Dąbrowski and his riders had successfully broken through the Russian left flank.
Standing before him was a hastily deployed Russian infantry regiment of about 1,300 men.
He glanced back at his tired Hussars, then looked towards the distant Russian command post, barely visible on the high ground.
He hesitated for a moment before sighing heavily.
His soldiers were exhausted, their horses just as weary. It was unlikely they could break through the Russian infantry defenses.
At that moment, he faintly heard the sound of a long horn behind him—the signal to retreat.
Dąbrowski shook his head.
If he had just 300 more cavalrymen…
If his men had just a little more strength…
Perhaps, the war would have ended today.
Regretfully, he turned his horse around and gave the order to withdraw.
At the Polish command post, Kościuszko breathed a sigh of relief as he saw his troops successfully retreat before the Russians could reorganize.
It was now close to 4 PM, and in their current disarray, the Russians had no chance of launching another attack.
Tomorrow. There was still one more day.
Two hours later, a staff officer reported the casualties to Kościuszko.
His soldiers had fought valiantly, dealing devastating losses to an enemy three times their size. But they had paid a heavy price.
Over 1,300 infantrymen had been killed or wounded. Ninety-seven cavalrymen had fallen. Two cannons had been lost—out of only three they had brought.
This meant that in tomorrow's battle, Kościuszko would have just over 8,600 soldiers left.
The Russian casualties were unclear, but it was estimated that at least 26,000 of them were still battle-ready.
And tomorrow, Kakhovsky would not spread his forces thin again. There would be no more easy opportunities.
Kościuszko frowned at the map. After a long silence, he turned to his messenger and ordered:
"Command the entire army to move toward the Salgir River. Pasbitski's battalion will cover the retreat."
The Salgir River was about a mile east of Simferopol. Fortunately, Crimea's winters were mild, and the river had not frozen over.
While Kościuszko was battling the Russians, Szwiecicki launched a fierce assault on the city of Bakhchisarai.
The city's defenses had been built by the Ottomans long ago. They looked impressive, but they weren't particularly strong.
At dawn, Russian defenders spotted over a thousand Polish soldiers advancing from the east.
They weren't overly concerned.
The Poles had attacked before with far greater numbers, and the Russians had repelled them with ease.
But they soon realized something was different.
This time, the Polish firepower was not sparse and scattered—it was intense and overwhelming.
Over a thousand Polish soldiers, spread out in skirmish formation, moved to within 80 paces of the walls and began firing relentlessly at the Russian defenders.
The Russian troops, caught off guard by the dense musket fire, struggled to hold their ground. Only the cannons on the walls kept them from being completely overwhelmed.
Then, Szwiecicki himself led his artillery regiment forward, dragging five cannons to within 150 paces of the city walls before halting.
For artillery, this was practically point-blank range.
The Russian defenders were horrified, scrambling to turn their cannons towards the Polish guns.
Szwiecicki shouted orders for his men to stabilize the cannon mounts and prepare ammunition.
Minutes later, three Russian cannonballs landed nearby, carving deep craters into the earth before bouncing further back.
The Polish artillerymen, undeterred, began loading their cannons.
Russian commander Trunikov, drenched in cold sweat, considered sending infantry to drive off the Polish artillery, but the relentless musket fire surrounding the cannons made him abandon the idea.
Moments later, the Polish cannons roared to life.
Five cannonballs slammed into the city walls, sending chunks of stone flying.
One of the cannons was a massive 24-pounder—brought from the Kursk fortress—which blasted a hole as deep as a man's arm into the wall.
Russian artillery crews desperately increased their rate of fire.
Due to the downward angle, the cannonballs from the city walls hit with devastating force. Even when they landed five or six meters away from the Polish gunners, the shrapnel and debris were enough to cause serious injuries.
Two Polish artillerymen groaned in pain and collapsed in pools of blood.
Immediately, two others rushed forward, wordlessly taking their places.
The Polish cannons fired again.
This time, the 24-pounder completely shattered the upper section of the wall, leaving a massive breach.
At last, the Russian commander realized the danger. Waving his arms frantically, he shouted to his artillery crew:
"Idiots! Load grapeshot!"
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