Chapter 710: The Russian War God's Counterattack
The orchestra abruptly stopped playing.
The gathered officers exchanged nervous glances before standing at attention, saluting, and scattering in all directions.
Suvorov waved off the ornately dressed guards who had been conducting the welcoming ceremony. Turning to Tormasov with a grim expression, he muttered,
"These fools have no idea how much time means to the Poles. Their king, despite the risk of angering the Tsarina, lied to buy time for his country. And look at us—wasting such precious time on ceremonies."
He scoffed bitterly.
"I'd wager that during the month we paused our offensive, the Poles have added several thousand fresh troops to their lines."
Suvorov's remark, though offhand, was entirely accurate.
Stanisław II's stalling tactics had delayed hostilities by 24 days. Seven more days passed before Catherine the Great's renewed orders to attack reached Smolensk. It then took Suvorov another four days to arrive in Minsk.
By this point, 36 days had elapsed since the Russians' temporary ceasefire.
In those six weeks, Warsaw had managed to deploy two newly trained infantry regiments—3,000 men—to reinforce Minsk. Two additional regiments were only four days away, along with six brand-new cannons.
Meanwhile, the Polish troops in Minsk, having rested for over a month, had regained their morale and strength. The entire defensive line was now significantly fortified.
Tormasov, reflecting on the situation, suggested,
"Field Marshal, perhaps we could spread word among the Poles that their king intends to surrender. It might dampen their spirits."
Suvorov nodded.
"Let's try it."
He glanced disdainfully at the command post, which had been decorated with ribbons for the ceremony. Gesturing for his horse, he ordered,
"Have those ridiculous decorations removed. I'm heading to the front."
"Yes, Field Marshal."
Evaluating the Frontline
A few hours later, Suvorov stood atop a hill overlooking the Polish defensive line through his telescope. He lowered it and turned to Tormasov.
"I must admit, these Polish soldiers are remarkably tenacious."
"Indeed, sir," Tormasov replied.
"Korenev's tactics were far too rigid," Suvorov continued. He gestured for a map and pointed.
"We have a numerical advantage. A direct assault could break the Polish lines, but it would cost us valuable time."
He thought for a moment before issuing orders:
"Concentrate our forces on a narrower front. Launch a full-scale assault on Yushno village to the south.
"As for Gumylyov's corps, pull them back. Have them bypass the Polish lines through the forests near Navahrudak and advance westward."
Tormasov was taken aback.
"Field Marshal, the Navahrudak area is densely forested and nearly impossible to supply…"
Navahrudak, southwest of Minsk, provided a route toward the Polish stronghold of Drohiczyn, which was perilously close to Warsaw.
Suvorov smirked.
"That's fine. As long as the Poles believe we're preparing to assault Drohiczyn, the diversion will serve its purpose.
"The Gumylyov corps consists mainly of poorly equipped serf soldiers. They're of limited use here. But pulling them back will force the Poles to divert their forces in response.
"That's how you properly leverage a numerical advantage."
As artillery fire echoed in the distance, Suvorov mounted his horse.
"Within a week, the Poles will concentrate their reinforcements toward Yushno. When that happens, we'll pivot and attack the northern sector. Start setting up artillery positions there immediately."
"Understood, Field Marshal."
Rumors Among the Polish Troops
Two days later, rumors about the Polish king began circulating among the defenders in Minsk.
Behind the trenches, Czesław leaned against a barricade after the Russian troops retreated. Reloading his musket, he turned to a soot-covered young soldier next to him.
"Hey, Vanya, did you hear? They say the king is heading to St. Petersburg to surrender."
Vanya paused from counting ammunition, exaggeratedly widening his eyes.
"Oh, dear God! I'm shocked! I didn't even know our king was aware we were fighting the Russians!"
Laughter rippled through the soldiers.
The Polish king, widely regarded as an incompetent clown, was rarely taken seriously.
Nearby, a burly soldier chimed in,
"The prince is still leading battles in Mozyr. No one's surrendering!"
"Exactly! The Sejm just issued a new mobilization order. The recruitment camps in Warsaw are packed every day!"
Another soldier leaned in conspiratorially.
"I heard from the captain that General Kościuszko is launching a surprise attack on Moscow!"
"Really?"
"That's incredible!"
"The Russians are doomed!"
Despite the humor, Czesław offered a word of caution.
"Still, it's true the king went to St. Petersburg. I read about it in a newspaper in the officers' tent."
Vanya rolled his eyes.
"He probably went to meet his old lover. What was her name again? Oh, didn't his Russian rival send him running home last time?"
The soldiers burst into laughter again.
The burly soldier quipped,
"His 'honey' must be pushing 65 by now!"
Vanya added with a sly grin,
"Our king has… exotic tastes. You wouldn't understand."
Nearby, an older soldier mimicked lifting sagging breasts, joking,
"By now, she's probably drooping down to here."
The men roared with laughter.
An Unforeseen Outcome
Unbeknownst to Suvorov, his attempt to demoralize the Polish troops had the opposite effect. The rumor of the king's surrender had become nothing more than a running joke, lightening the mood among the soldiers and relieving their tension in the face of Russian offensives.
Meanwhile, in St. Petersburg, Stanisław II stood in a corner of the Winter Palace, gazing anxiously toward the western horizon—the direction of Poland.
In Paris
On the second floor of Versailles, Perna gently tucked the blankets around a feverish, restless Camellia. Turning to the crown prince, she shook her head and whispered,
"Your Highness, her fever hasn't subsided. We've tried every method, and even doubled the BDP dosage, but there's been no effect."
"BDP" stood for "Blessing of the Crown Prince"—the most effective antipyretic available.
Camellia, still unconscious, began coughing violently. Perna quickly leaned forward, holding and soothing her.
Joseph's expression grew grim. Camellia's fever had persisted for three days and nights without improvement.
When her coughing subsided, Perna added,
"She hasn't eaten much these past two days. It's leaving her even weaker."
Joseph frowned.
"She likely has a lung infection."
The waters of the Seine were filthy, and inhaling them could easily lead to such complications.
"Infection?" Perna asked.
"Like when a wound becomes infected?"
"Something similar. It's caused by bacteria invading her lungs."
"Should we try treating her lungs with alcohol?" Perna suggested. She had extensive experience using 75% alcohol to clean wounds on the battlefield.
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