Life of Being a Crown Prince in France-Chapter 771 - 679 Burning Eastern Europe • Seven
Chapter 771: Chapter 679: Burning Eastern Europe • Seven
Chapter 771: Chapter 679: Burning Eastern Europe • Seven
At that moment, the gunfire from the farmhouse ahead suddenly ceased.
Delasovitz turned his head and saw more than a dozen Russian Cavalry converging behind the farmhouse, poking at the bodies of Father Stashak and others with horse sabers—whether out of vengeance or to confirm their deaths was unclear.
The other soldiers evidently also saw this scene and clenched their flintlock guns tightly, their eyes brimming with furious flames.
“Damn beasts!”
Someone roared with bloodshot eyes, “Let’s avenge the Priest!”
“Yes, slaughter those sons of bitches!”
“Come back!” Although the platoon leader’s face was ashen, he stopped the soldiers and shouted loudly, “We need to make Father Stashak’s death worthwhile. We must hold the Cannon!”
Everyone fell silent.
Delasovitz clenched his teeth and said, “Commander, please give your orders.”
The platoon leader quickly surveyed the rudimentary artillery position at his feet.
It was a small mound slightly elevated, with nothing to provide cover except a tree at the back. The triangular wooden frames meant to defend against Cavalry were only perfunctorily placed in a couple of spots.
This meant the Russian Cavalry could attack from several directions.
Far off, the howls of the Cossacks resounded.
The platoon leader glanced at the Cannon wheels buried in the ground—for more stability during firing, the gunners would often do this—and frowned deeply, knowing it was too late to move the Cannon.
Without time to think further, he told the soldiers: “Twenty of the more robust men, fix bayonets, form a semicircle, and try to shield the Cannon.
“The rest of you, shoot from inside.
“Karoslaw, take a few men and bring over some obstacles.”
He then looked towards the artillery captain: “Have your men pick up guns too and help resist the Cavalry.”
“Yes, Commander. But we only have four flintlock guns left.”
Father Stashak and his group had taken the others.
“Then use ramrods, long-handled brushes, whatever you’ve got.”
“Yes, Commander!”
The Cossack Cavalry moved quickly, hardly forming up before emitting waves of howls and charging toward the artillery position from the west.
Delasovitz’s legs were spread in a bow stance, with the butt of his flintlock gun sandwiched at his waist, and the bayonet slanted upward at a 45-degree angle.
Beside him were veterans who needed no reminder, so he turned to Yanni behind him and said, “Hold steady. The Cavalry’s gun range is very short. Aim well before you shoot. You might only get one chance.”
Yanni’s breathing was very rapid, and he nodded vigorously, “Okay, I’ve got it.”
Just a few minutes later, the wolf-like Russian Cavalry arrived about eighty to ninety steps away from the artillery position and began to gallop hard.
Normally, Cavalry facing an infantry bayonet line would choose to sweep by the front, waiting for opportunities to strike with guns or horse sabers, then regroup at a distance, turn and charge again.
In repeated assaults, they aimed to tear a gap in the infantry formation and then forcefully penetrate through it.
However, this time the Russians, realizing that the defending infantry numbered fewer than themselves and that the defense was too spread out, constituting only a thin line, decided to charge directly.
The thundering sound of horse hooves struck the hearts of every Polish infantryman.
Even the most experienced veterans felt a strong sense of fear when facing the towering warhorses charging towards them.
However, the 20 Polish soldiers, forming a semicircle, seemed as if nailed to the ground. Their eyes were wide open and they even forgot to breathe, yet none of them moved an inch.
With a loud “bang,” the cannon, surrounded by Polish soldiers, opened fire first.
Only one cannon was angled correctly to hit the Russians. A cluster of iron balls fiercely penetrated the cavalry ranks and scattered under immense force, directly piercing through two horses and three Russian cavalrymen, leaving trails of dust and flesh within the ranks.
Several gunners rapidly used wet cloths to cool down the barrel before loading it with gunpowder.
But the Cossack Cavalry had already ascended the hill, their flintlock guns crackling loudly. Immediately, two Polish soldiers clutched their wounds and fell.
The platoon leader kept repeating, “Don’t fire yet, wait—”
The cavalry had already charged to within 30 paces of the Polish lines. They discarded their guns and drew their horse sabers—their primary weapon—and screamed as they lunged forward.
Certainly, being in the heart of the Polish territory, Polish reinforcements could arrive at any moment, prompting them to seek a quick resolution.
Just as Delasovitz could distinctly smell the stench of the horses’ breath, he finally heard the platoon leader shout, “Fire—”
Flames burst out from behind him.
The six leading Cossack horsemen fell off their horses, even causing two others behind them to stumble.
“Hold the line!”
The platoon leader had just shouted when Delasovitz felt a wave of gravel hit him, his vision darkened as the sunlight was blocked by the charging horses.
It was impossible, like in the movies, for cavalry to blindly crash into infantry. The horses instinctively halted at the sight of the sharp bayonets.
A mounted Cossack raised his horse saber high and chopped down towards him.
“Watch out!” A soldier next to him yelled. His bayonet thrust forward rapidly, striking the cavalryman in the waist before the horse saber could complete its descent.
The Russian screamed in pain and fell from his horse.
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“Thank you…”
Delasovitz had just uttered a word when a horse saber swung from the side. The soldier who had just saved his life suddenly bore a dreadful wound across his chest.
“No!”
Blood seemed to seep from Delasovitz’s eyes as he screamed, raised his bayonet, and charged at that Russian cavalryman…
Behind him, Yanick was confronting another Cossack horseman with his flintlock gun.
Though mounted cavalry was significantly taller than infantry, complicatedly resembling a matchup with a dwarf, he showed no fear. Risking the cavalryman’s saber slashing towards him, he stubbornly thrust his bayonet into the opponent’s abdomen…
Nearby, Karoslaw had knocked down a Russian cavalryman. Both clutched each other’s necks and rolled down the hill together…
Meanwhile, Polish gunners in the back rows poked at the horses’ necks with long-handled brushes, startling the animals into throwing off their riders. But in the next moment, an axe flew in from somewhere, “thud,” embedding in his forehead…
A Polish soldier with a broken right leg gasped harshly for air, crawled close to a nearby Cossack horseman, mustering his last bit of strength to strike the horse’s leg with a collected horse saber—it was the highest point he could reach…
The Russians had not expected such a loose infantry line to hold up under the full charge of more than 30 cavalrymen, dragging them into a hellish battle of life-for-life.
In just over ten minutes, the hill was covered with bodies. Among the fresh blood and severed limbs, several horses impatiently twisted their bodies, trying to shake the corpses off their stirrups.
