Chapter 708: Marching to Death
The courier departed as ordered. Meanwhile, a cavalry officer with thick sideburns and a hooked nose, Colonel Bagration, entered Korennikov's office. Standing at attention, he reported,
"General, I have expanded the search radius to 8 versts as you instructed, but we still haven't located the Polish army."
Korennikov waved his hand irritably.
"Send more men toward Moscow. You should find something there."
"Yes, General." Bagration saluted but hesitated.
"However, two days ago, the enemy was still in Bryansk. It's unlikely they've reached Moscow already. I've searched everywhere repeatedly, except…"
"Except?" Korennikov raised an eyebrow.
"Except for the Siverskaya region," Bagration ventured.
Korennikov chuckled dryly.
"Unless the Poles have gone mad, why would they head south? Their goal is clearly Moscow."
"But perhaps we could—"
"Use your brain, Piotr." Korennikov tapped his forehead impatiently.
"Siverskaya and Relisinsk are nothing but endless black forests. Beyond them lies Kursk Fortress. What would they do there—hunt wild boar?
"If they really did head south, I'd be relieved. They'd starve to death in the forests before long."
South of Bryansk lay sparsely inhabited woodlands. Relisinsk Province, similar in size to South Holland, had a population of only 34,000. Even Kursk and Kharkov farther south were impoverished and would offer little in the way of supplies.
To reach the inhabited Krasnoyarsk region, the Poles would need to march 400 miles—a two-month journey at least. Without proper supplies, their survival in such desolate terrain was impossible.
Bagration left the office, deep in thought about the Poles' possible movements. After a moment, he muttered to himself,
"Still, we should confirm."
That afternoon, 1,000 riders from the Royal Holm Cavalry Regiment, personally commanded by Bagration, quietly departed the camp and headed toward Siverskaya.
Blasovo: A Polish Encampment
Two scouts caught up with Dąbrowski, their faces anxious.
"General, a Russian cavalry force has appeared behind us. We didn't dare get too close, but it seems to be at least six squadrons."
Kościuszko frowned deeply.
"Are they following us?"
"They're three miles west of us and likely haven't discovered our location yet."
"But with so many cavalrymen, it's only a matter of time," Dąbrowski pointed out.
Kościuszko fell silent, knowing the stakes.
If the Russians discovered the Poles' intent to move south, they might not have time to gather a large force to block their advance. However, even a small group of cavalry could slow their progress significantly. Worse still, Kursk Fortress could reinforce its defenses.
The Polish army might starve to death in front of the fortress.
Dąbrowski, clearly thinking along the same lines, snapped his riding crop.
"I'll take the cavalry and destroy them."
"Wait!" Kościuszko raised a hand.
"Any survivors will alert the rest of the Russians, bringing reinforcements."
Dąbrowski's cavalry and winged hussars numbered only 1,500—far too few to annihilate 1,000 Russian riders completely.
"Then what do we do?" Dąbrowski asked.
Kościuszko looked at the soldiers marching past them. After a long pause, he reluctantly ordered the courier,
"Command the entire army to turn northeast. Make it look like we're heading toward Odyov."
"Yes, General!"
Dąbrowski, puzzled, asked,
"What are you planning?"
"To make the Russian cavalry think we're circling northeast to approach Moscow from the south," Kościuszko explained.
"But they'll eventually realize we're still moving south and find us again."
Kościuszko lowered his gaze to his saddle.
"Which is why someone must stop them."
Dąbrowski immediately understood. If the cavalry could be delayed for two or three days, they would believe the main Polish force had continued northeast. Meanwhile, the Poles would have turned south and disappeared into the forests of Siverskaya, leaving the Russians with no trail to follow.
"Then I'll stay behind and hold off their tail," Dąbrowski volunteered. He spoke lightly, but everyone knew that separating from the main force meant certain death in the face of encircling Russian reinforcements.
"You are too critical to the cavalry," said a voice.
Colonel Antoni Madaliński rode forward, saluted Kościuszko, and said,
"General, allow me to take on this mission. With 1,300 soldiers, I promise to hold off the Russians for more than three days."
Kościuszko considered this for a moment. Finally, he stepped forward, clapped Madaliński on the shoulder, and said solemnly,
"Poland will remember your name—and the names of every brave soldier who fights alongside you."
"Don't be so dramatic," Madaliński replied with a grin.
"The battles you and Dąbrowski will face are far more dangerous than mine. I simply can't wait to give those Russians a beating."
The Last Stand
The next day, on the outskirts of Odyov, Madaliński stood beside a narrow valley between a river and the northern woods. Facing him were the 37th King's Infantry Regiment and two squadrons of winged hussars.
Madaliński pounded his chest as he addressed them:
"You all know the task before us.
"I have no right to demand your lives.
"But I must. Because I can think of no other way to save our homeland.
"For Poland's survival, for the freedom of our children from the invader's chains, I ask you to drench this soil with your blood.
"Forgive my presumption. I will spend eternity in Hell repenting for this.
"But before that, we will tear our enemies to pieces!
"Victory will belong to Poland!"
The 1,300 Polish soldiers stood silent for a long time.
Then someone struck their chest and shouted,
"I will die with you!"
A roar erupted from the ranks:
"Die together!"
"Rip them apart!"
"For Poland!"
Not a single soldier faltered.
The Russians Close In
By noon, the Russian cavalry pursuing Kościuszko's army spotted a Polish infantry line blocking the valley.
The Russian officer in command hesitated as he studied the Polish royal banners through his spyglass.
By the next morning, after confirming the Polish force numbered only about 1,000 and showed no signs of retreating, he finally issued the order to attack.
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