Chapter 706: The Eagle and the Knight
Zubov froze on the spot.
Stanislaw II gestured for his attendant to bring a map and began meticulously discussing which territories Poland should cede to Russia.
By 5 p.m., the two sides finally agreed on the future border between Poland and Russia. Stanislaw II generously ceded most of Poland's central and eastern provinces to Russia.
He then picked up Zubov's draft treaty and said:
"However, simply amending these constitutional clauses won't guarantee that the Polish parliament will remain loyal to Her Majesty the Tsar. We must devise a detailed plan to ensure the parliament does not defy Her Majesty's will."
Zubov widened his eyes but nodded eagerly:
"Yes, yes, of course."
A Dangerous Game
By the fourth day of ceasefire negotiations, Stanislaw II glanced at the armed Russian guards outside the negotiation chamber. Inwardly, he calculated: 22 days have passed. Warsaw still needs 18 more.
Zubov, having basked in days of flattery from the Polish king, greeted him warmly:
"Ah, Your Majesty, you've arrived! Please, have a seat."
"Oh, and the order you sent to General Kościuszko should reach him shortly. Her Majesty the Tsar has decided to personally award you a Saint George Medal once his troops surrender."
Stanislaw II feigned astonishment:
"This is the greatest honor of my life! My deepest gratitude to Her Majesty!"
Zubov had his attendants bring in the recent drafts of the treaty.
"Her Majesty is quite satisfied with this agreement. However, we've been negotiating for some time, and she's growing impatient. She has instructed us to sign the ceasefire treaty immediately, leaving the finer details to be worked out later."
"That's perfectly reasonable," Stanislaw replied with a smile.
"However, I believe that your forces in Warsaw should be reinforced to ensure stability…"
He then rambled on about various amendments, dragging the talks into the evening. When Zubov finally insisted he sign the document, Stanislaw clutched his stomach and collapsed:
"Oh, the pain... My dysentery must have returned!"
A Prisoner King
The next day, after hours of medical treatment, Zubov stormed into Stanislaw's quarters, face dark with anger.
"I've spoken with the doctors," Zubov growled. "You haven't had diarrhea or a fever all day. You don't have dysentery!"
"I-I don't know what illness this is," Stanislaw stammered weakly.
"But I feel terribly faint…"
At that moment, an official whispered something into Zubov's ear.
Turning back, Zubov's face twisted with rage:
"Kościuszko has rejected your orders. His forces are still advancing eastward!"
"That's impossible!" Stanislaw protested, still feigning frailty.
"I can write him another letter, this time with harsher language—"
"Enough!" Zubov snapped. He sat beside the king's sickbed, shoved the treaty into his hands, and barked:
"Sign this. Now!"
"Ow, ow…"
"Guards, lift him up and give him a pen!"
Stanislaw sat upright with exaggerated effort, casting a sly glance at Zubov:
"You must know that, under Poland's constitution, any ceasefire treaty requires parliamentary approval. Without it, I simply cannot—"
Zubov exploded, slamming his fist on the table.
"You scoundrel! You'll regret this!"
As Zubov stormed out, slamming the door behind him, Stanislaw muttered to himself:
"24 days… I truly did my best. May God protect Poland."
Stanislaw II and his entourage were promptly thrown into prison.
Catherine the Great, livid, turned to General K. Korennikov, who was trembling like a leaf in the wind. She swung her cane and struck him hard:
"Fool!"
Marshal Rumyantsev stepped in to redirect her fury:
"Your Majesty, fortunately, our central defenses remain intact. The situation isn't entirely lost."
Still fuming, Catherine panted:
"Hah… Fine. Poland must be taught a harsh lesson! Order Count Suvorov to personally lead the campaign in Minsk."
Until now, Suvorov had merely held an honorary title as commander of the Polish invasion while coordinating from Smolensk. But Catherine, in her rage, disregarded the aging general's health and sent him to the front lines.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Rumyantsev replied, glancing at Korennikov. "Perhaps Korennikov could be tasked with dealing with Kościuszko's forces. Let him atone for his failures."
"So be it."
Poland Strikes
Western Russia, Outside Bryansk
Jakov, a serf, handed a wooden plank to Yegor, who was mending a pigsty.
"I heard Lord Gumilov say the Tsar's army is about to capture Minsk."
"Where's Minsk?" Yegor muttered as he hammered.
"Hand me the narrow plank. The Tsar's lands keep getting bigger."
"It's to the west, in Poland," Jakov replied.
"They say tens of thousands of troops are fighting there. This time, they might march all the way to Warsaw—that's Poland's capital."
"Sounds far away. Won't the Poles fight back?"
"They'll try, but Lord Gumilov says they're weak. We beat them 20 years ago and took a lot of land. This time will be no different."
"If we win, the lords will be happy. Maybe they'll give us white bread to eat."
"Or they'll just get drunk and beat you, like the generals beat those Poles."
The two serfs chuckled bitterly. Suddenly, they froze, staring southwest.
"What's that?" Yegor stammered. "It looks like the hailstorm from two years ago…"
"The noise is louder," Jakov replied, his voice trembling.
"And… do you feel that? The ground is shaking!"
"God, is it the end of the world?"
On the horizon, a massive line of red-clad cavalry appeared. Behind them, white wings soared above the riders, fluttering like a host of angels descending upon the earth.
The serfs dropped to their knees, frantically crossing themselves and praying.
The "red angels" thundered through the nearby village, crashing into Bryansk like a hammer.
The city offered little resistance and collapsed almost instantly under the cavalry's charge.
Behind the horsemen came infantry columns, marching in formation as they poured into Bryansk from all sides.
In less than half an hour, nobles and commoners alike fled the city in panic. Bryansk became a hive of chaos, with people scattering in all directions like ants from a disturbed nest.
Huddled in their pigsty, Jakov and Yegor watched in horror.
"Who are they?" Yegor whispered.
Jakov pointed shakily at the red flags bearing a white eagle and a knight. In a terrified voice, he replied:
"I think… they're Poles."
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