Chapter 726: The Motherland Is Proud of You
"Don't just stand there! Raise your guns!"
Russian officers shouted at their stunned soldiers, lashing them with their whips.
Across the battlefield, Kościuszko also roared:
"Reload!"
The Russians, though shaken, were still elite grenadiers. Under their officers' harsh commands, they quickly snapped back to attention, hastily raising their muskets and firing a disorganized volley.
But with over 8,000 muskets firing at close range, the Polish line was instantly riddled with holes.
Yet the Polish soldiers stood like statues, unfazed. They quietly reloaded, lifted their guns once more, and—
"Fire!"
Kościuszko's saber sliced downward.
A blinding wave of musket fire extended all the way to the riverbank. The hail of lead tore through the short distance of 30 paces, drilling mercilessly into the Russian ranks.
Over 400 Russian soldiers collapsed on the spot.
When the Russian commander ordered his troops to "Advance five paces!", his soldiers hesitated.
They stood frozen, eyes filled with terror as they glanced at the mangled bodies around them and the wounded writhing in agony.
Then, the Polish line moved forward five paces instead.
Now, they were barely 20 paces apart—face to face.
The Russians no longer cared about orders. In sheer desperation, they fired their muskets, hoping to drive back these terrifying enemies.
But the only response was another devastating Polish volley.
A storm of lead tore through the Russian ranks. Their formation crumbled under the screams of the dying.
Starting from the southern end, soldiers began throwing down their weapons and running. The panic spread like wildfire, engulfing the entire line.
Officers screamed for order, but the men ignored them—soon, even the officers were running.
At that moment, hundreds of red-clad Winged Hussars galloped onto the battlefield, their feathered wings swaying in the wind as they chased down and slaughtered the fleeing Russians.
There were no cheers from the Polish troops.
Instead, they quietly checked their weapons, reloaded their muskets, and tended to their fallen comrades.
Occasionally, they would glance toward the distant cavalry, watching the Hussars cut down the enemy.
They had driven back the Russians with sheer iron will, but at a terrible cost—over 800 of their own lay dead or wounded.
And they knew the battle was far from over. They had to hold the line for an entire day…
At the Russian headquarters, Kakhovsky lowered his telescope, his face grim.
He had expected the Poles to fight fiercely, but he never imagined his troops would collapse so quickly.
Fortunately, he had come prepared.
Exhaling sharply, he turned to his messenger:
"Send in Dubinin's corps."
"Yes, General!"
Half an hour later, a second Russian infantry line advanced, stepping past the remnants of their fleeing comrades.
Soon, the battle resumed exactly as before—musket volleys exchanged in brutal repetition.
Kościuszko had chosen this battlefield for a reason: there was little room for maneuvering.
There was only one way to fight—head-on.
Fire.
Lead.
Smoke.
The cries of the dying.
And bodies—endless bodies.
The banks of the Salgir River became a place where only Death reigned, laughing wildly over the carnage.
By 6 PM, as the sun finally set, Kościuszko committed his last reserve force and repelled the Russians' fifth assault.
The battlefield fell silent.
Death faded into the shadows of the night. The Salgir River, once again, flowed undisturbed.
Polish soldiers carefully laid the bodies of their fallen comrades along the riverbank, as the army chaplain whispered prayers for their souls.
Kościuszko reclined on a blanket, gazing at the stars. He turned to Dąbrowski and asked:
"Bakhchisarai should be secured by now, right?"
"Yeah." Dąbrowski took a swig of watered-down medicinal alcohol, nodded, then smacked his lips. "That old hag will be mourning for years."
"I wish I could go back to Warsaw." Kościuszko sighed. "My grandson is about to be born."
Dąbrowski clapped him firmly on the shoulder. "He will always be proud of you."
Kościuszko took the bottle from his hand and drank. "God willing, he will grow up in a world without war."
"Yes. That's why we're here."
At dawn, the Russians wasted no time.
They launched an all-out assault.
Kościuszko had only 5,000 men left.
The battle quickly became a desperate struggle. As they exchanged volleys with over 10,000 Russians, a new threat appeared—
A thousand Cossack cavalrymen charged toward the Polish right flank.
This time, the Winged Hussars did not ride out to stop them—their horses were exhausted from the previous day's battle. Forced to dismount, they had joined the infantry lines.
Kościuszko immediately led his personal guard to reinforce the right flank.
As he gripped his musket, bayonet fixed, and shouted for his men to hold the line, a cannonball crashed into the ground just a few steps away.
The black iron sphere struck something, bounced unpredictably to the left—
And whistled past Kościuszko's side.
His body lurched forward.
The world spun.
The green moss on the ground grew larger in his vision…
By 11 AM, bloodied and exhausted, 3,000 Polish soldiers—having fired their last rounds—were surrounded by Russian forces along the riverbank.
The highest-ranking officer remaining stepped forward and, following Kościuszko's final orders, surrendered to Kakhovsky.
Beforehand, they had burned all their banners.
So when the Russians accepted their surrender, they received no Polish flags as trophies.
Northeast Poland
Minsk
Suvorov rode through the wide boulevard in front of Minsk's Holy Spirit Cathedral.
He smirked as he felt the burning hatred in the eyes of the Polish citizens watching him pass.
The Lithuanian commander, Birak, had been utterly outmatched.
Upon learning that a Russian force had moved toward Novogrudok, Birak misread Suvorov's intentions, believing he planned to flank the town of Drohiczyn.
Thus, he dispatched an elite infantry division to reinforce Novogrudok—leaving Minsk defenseless.
Suvorov wasted no time exploiting the mistake. He concentrated his forces and swiftly broke through Minsk's northern defenses.
Now, Birak's army had retreated west to Vilnius.
Though Vilnius had the Vilno Fortress to rely on, Suvorov saw no need to engage it directly—he could simply bypass it through Novogrudok.
If that happened, Birak would be forced to leave Vilnius and fight in open terrain—where Suvorov had the advantage.
Suddenly, a young man burst through a gap between the Russian soldiers on the roadside, hurling a stone at Suvorov's head and shouting:
"Go back to Russia, you devil!"
Suvorov ducked, dodging the rock.
Frowning, he turned to General Tormasov and ordered:
"It seems there are many rebels against the Tsar in this city. Round them up and execute them."
"Yes, Marshal!"
As the young man was dragged away, another Russian officer approached Suvorov and saluted.
He handed him a battle report.
Suvorov unfolded it with a smirk—
But his expression darkened instantly.
The report read:
Kakhovsky's army has destroyed Kościuszko's forces.
However…
Bakhchisarai has fallen. Kaffa Port has been burned.
Kakhovsky's corps suffered heavy casualties and will require at least six months to recover.
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