Chapter 709: The Promise
The cavalry Bagration sent was composed of the elite Royal Guard, far superior in skill to the Cossacks. Yet, under Colonel Madaliński's command, the Polish soldiers stood firm, holding their ground with bayonets against repeated charges from 1,000 Russian horsemen. Though casualties mounted, there was no sign of retreat.
By midday, the Russian cavalry, finding themselves unable to break the Polish line, attempted to bypass the defenders through the river valley. Immediately, two squadrons of Poland's winged hussars charged in to intercept. Supported by Polish infantry flanking from the sides, the combined effort killed 40 to 50 Russian cavalry on the spot.
The next day, after suffering setbacks, the Russian cavalry halted their attacks. By mid-afternoon, reinforcements arrived—another 1,000 Russian cavalrymen from north of Bryansk. Unbeknownst to Madaliński, several thousand Russian infantry were only 8 versts (approximately 8.5 kilometers) away and closing in.
By dusk, 2,000 Russian cavalry launched a renewed assault on the Polish defensive line.
Madaliński had refused to request artillery support, knowing the main force would need those cannons to breach Kursk Fortress. Without heavy firepower, his troops could only adjust their formation to cover gaps caused by mounting losses.
Fortunately, it was a cloudy day, and the sun set early, by 5:30 PM. The Russians withdrew for the night.
In the Polish camp, a young lieutenant reported grimly:
"Colonel, we've lost 107 men, with 205 severely wounded."
Madaliński nodded silently and turned to his adjutant.
"Let everyone rest well. Tomorrow is our last day."
Only 1,000 soldiers remained, while the number of Russian forces continued to grow. Whether they could hold for the promised three days was uncertain.
Madaliński allowed himself a bitter smile. Perhaps he would have to confess his failure in hell, though he already had many sins to atone for. Adding one more wouldn't make much difference.
A Final Stand
At dawn the next day, the Russians wasted no time and launched an all-out assault.
Madaliński stood at the center of the defensive line with a flintlock musket in hand. By this point, there was little left to command. He figured his efforts were better spent adding firepower than shouting "Hold your ground!"
The earth trembled under the approaching cavalry, and his ears were filled with shouts of "Ura!" musket fire, and the pounding of war drums. Mechanically, he loaded, fired, and reloaded his weapon.
By noon, with the sun overhead, his arms were so exhausted he could no longer lift his musket. Frustrated, he muttered to himself,
"Damn it, I'm not the man I was ten years ago."
Turning his head, he saw the Polish defensive line had been reduced to a width of less than 200 meters. Even severely wounded soldiers sat on the ground, struggling to lift their muskets and fire at the enemy.
As the hours dragged on, Madaliński could barely stand. Many winged hussars had been forced to dismount, some joining the infantry in the line with muskets they had scavenged.
The Russians could have bypassed the Polish defenders at any time to continue their march eastward, but out of sheer spite, they remained, determined to crush these unyielding enemies.
Madaliński glanced at the setting sun and gathered his strength to shout:
"Hold the line!"
In that moment, a Russian cavalryman charged past him. Without the protection of bayonets, the rider's saber sliced through Madaliński's neck.
He felt his strength leave him. As he fell, he looked one last time at the sun, trying to tell his soldiers, "Only one more hour." But the words never came.
Unwavering Resolve
As night fell, Russian soldiers stood among the heaps of Polish corpses illuminated by firelight. Yet they felt no triumph. Instead, an overwhelming sense of dread gripped them.
None of these Poles had surrendered.
The last hundred survivors, completely surrounded, had launched a suicidal bayonet charge against thousands of Russian cavalry.
The Russians struggled to suppress a chilling thought—if all Poles fought like this, could they truly win this war?
South of Bryansk: At the Edge of the Siverskaya Forest
Kościuszko gazed northward, his chest tight with unspoken emotion. The Russians had not pursued.
He knew that Madaliński and his men had fulfilled their promise.
Now, it was his turn to honor his promise to the homeland.
Outside Minsk: Suvorov Arrives
Inside a carriage guarded by nearly a hundred cavalry, Field Marshal Alexander Vasilyevich Suvorov flipped through intelligence reports on Minsk's Polish defenders with a look of exasperation.
He had been "on vacation" in Smolensk but was abruptly summoned to the front by the Empress herself.
These young officers nowadays, he thought to himself, were hardly up to the task.
As he grumbled, something in the documents caught his attention. He flipped back a few pages and handed the file to General Tormasov sitting opposite him.
"Tormasov, this issue is yours to handle."
Tormasov scanned the papers, puzzled.
"Field Marshal, I don't quite understand your meaning."
Suvorov leaned back lazily.
"The composition of the Polish forces."
"?!"
"Look closely. Units from Vilnius, Trakai, and even distant Drohiczyn have been deployed, but there's no mention of the Courland army."
Tormasov frowned. Courland, a duchy in northeastern Poland, had little autonomy and was effectively a Lithuanian vassal. Its failure to contribute troops to Poland's national defense was indeed peculiar.
"Do you suspect Courland's forces are planning something?"
"Riga Port," Suvorov replied.
"If I'm not mistaken, they'll launch an attack there soon."
Riga was Russia's most vital Baltic port. Any attack on it would demand an immediate military response.
"But Poland's defensive line has been in steady retreat. They wouldn't divide their forces to—"
"They already did at Bryansk," Suvorov interrupted,
"and they're approaching Moscow. I have every reason to suspect Riga will face the same."
Tormasov nodded hastily.
"I'll send reinforcements to Riga immediately."
Strategic Disruption
Meanwhile, in Courland, Colonel Kosiński anxiously awaited supplies for his 4,000 troops. The region was so impoverished that, after weeks, they still lacked sufficient provisions.
Suvorov's insight had thrown Poland's northern strategy into chaos.
The carriage stopped outside the Russian field command center.
As Suvorov disembarked, a crowd of officers rushed forward to greet him. He glared at them and barked,
"Who gave you permission to waste time standing here? Immediately, launch an attack on the Polish defensive line!"
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