Life of Being a Crown Prince in France - Chapter 1443 - 1349: Like Sergeant Vizcek!

Chapter 1443: Chapter 1349: Like Sergeant Vizcek!

Vizcek’s corpse was never found.

This situation is not uncommon in battles with cavalry. After a dozen warhorses gallop past, only bloodstains and shattered flesh remain along the way.

Yannick tightly gripped the hilt of his sword, his forehead veins bulging, and walked stiffly step by step to General Voyechkov, speaking in a hoarse voice:

“General, give the order.”

The latter nodded solemnly, “I need to discuss tactics with General Madaliniski.”

Suddenly, Yannick raised his head, his blood-red eyes glaring as he shouted, “Give the order! Now!”

Vizcek was close in age when they first enlisted, and now Yannick was alive, but Vizcek had sacrificed his life on his first battlefield.

This made Yannick feel like a deserter living cowardly.

General Voyechkov patted his shoulder, “I will assign you the main attacking task.”

“Yes!”

Yannick’s roar echoed through the grove, even overpowering the distant rumble of cannons.

At three in the afternoon, Kutuzov learned that the elite Cossack cavalry had been unexpectedly obstructed by a small squad of Polish infantry, leading to a failed surprise attack, and his expression turned bleak.

He summoned a few senior officers, instructing them on a phased withdrawal from Minsk, when he noticed a courier, face covered in blood, slumped on his horse, racing towards them, weakly saying, “General, urgent reinforcements needed…”

Kutuzov frowned, while a staff officer beside him recognized the rider, “General, it’s from the Dokhturov Corps…”

Kutuzov’s heart tightened, as he leaned toward the courier, “Reinforcements? Why haven’t you retreated?”

The Dokhturov Corps consisted of over 5,000 men sent to feint. According to the plan, they should have immediately retreated after the cavalry raid successfully broke through.

The courier struggled to lift his head, “Just as we were about to retreat, a Polish cavalry appeared behind us.”

Madaliniski initially only intended to slow the Russian withdrawal speed to destroy more enemies during pursuit, but unexpectedly, Colonel Radoslav’s winged cavalry relied on a desperate blockade, allowing the Polish Army to encircle the Dokhturov Corps.

Kutuzov’s face turned somewhat pale.

If it were another unit, he would abandon them without hesitation, as there were only 5,000 soldiers.

However, among Dokhturov’s troops were over 3,000 men of the Semyonov Guard.

Those were the elite of elites established personally by Peter the Great, a trusted aide of successive Tsars.

In the face of fierce Polish attacks, only this most elite corps had the capability to counter-charge.

If the Semyonov Guards were defeated in Minsk, upon returning to Saint Petersburg, he would surely face the Tsar’s wrath.

Kutuzov sighed deeply and turned to instruct the Order Officer, “Have Tuchkov immediately assist Dokhturov.”

A staff officer quickly advised, “General, this will lead to a lack of troops on our defensive line.”

“It’s fine, abandon the outer defense line,” Kutuzov replied, “concentrate on withdrawing outside the city.”

He was already prepared to retreat, as long as Minsk could hold on until the Svislach River positions were arranged.

Elsewhere, large numbers of Polish soldiers began a fierce attack on the encircled Russian army.

The incident where the Sixth Skirmisher Battalion sacrificed entirely to protect the cannon had spread through the Polish Army, and everyone shouted “Avenge the Sixth Battalion,” charging crazily at the Russian temporarily constructed defenses.

Yet, the Semyonov Corps remained the Russian elite, quickly finding a dry riverbed as their support point, continuously firing at Polish troops from three directions and amazingly maintaining their defense without collapsing.

The next morning, Tuchkov’s reinforcements arrived, and as long as they could join Dokhturov’s Corps, the Russian forces here would increase to over 13,000.

Meanwhile, King of Poland’s Twelfth Infantry Brigade also reached the battlefield.

Yannick heard the dense gunfire from afar. Then, some cavalry reported to him saying there was a Russian reinforcement engaging with General Madaliniski’s central forces.

Yannick reined in his horse, turned to wave at the soldiers, shouting, “Although we can’t revive our comrades from the Sixth Battalion, we can face death as bravely as they did!

“For the motherland, come with me!”

The remaining 3,700 soldiers of the Twelfth Brigade lifted their Charleville Flintlock Guns, shouting loudly, and jogged forward.

The Russian reinforcements were somewhat caught off guard by the sudden appearance of Poles, desperately splitting their forces to organize a blockade.

Yannick personally held the military flag at the forefront, and while the soldiers beside him were somewhat scattered, each step they took was resolute.

Soon, both sides engaged in almost simultaneous volleys.

The explosion of gunfire mingled with the whistling bullets, filling every inch of space between the two sides.

Instantly, more than a dozen around Yannick fell into pools of blood, yet he continued walking forward as if Vizcek was watching him from behind.

But the Twelfth Brigade was severely outnumbered, and within minutes, large gaps appeared in the charging ranks.

The two drummers beside Yannick were both struck by bullets. His Guard Captain, disregarding his orders, and others dragged him from the battlefield.

The Russians did not pursue; their goal was to aid the breakout of the Semyonov Guards.

On an expanse of wasteland, Yannick frowned at the flickering flames in the distance, and asked the staff officer beside him, “How many do we have left?”

“Not certain, Lieutenant Colonel, but the losses are great,” the latter replied, “casualties are likely over a thousand.”

“Meaning, we still have two-thirds of our troops.”

Yannick looked around at the blood-soaked soldiers sitting in the wild grass and suddenly shouted, “Do we still have any Poles here?!”

Everyone stared at him in astonishment.

Yannick grasped the military flag and waved it vigorously, “Are there any Poles here bold enough to charge the enemy lines like the Sixth Skirmisher Battalion did? Like Sergeant Vizcek did?”

Fatigued soldiers slowly stood up.

Soldiers bandaging wounds rose to their feet.

Even some one-handed wounded soldiers struggled to stand.

Twenty minutes later, this Polish infantry brigade, which had suffered over one-third casualties, remarkably regrouped, lined up, and with all their scars, launched another assault on the Russian forces.

As Tuchkov seemed on the verge of breaking through the Polish central forces’ encirclement, an uneven sound of military drums came again from the right side—more than half of the drummers in the Twelfth Infantry Brigade had been lost, leaving only ordinary soldiers to replace them.

The loss of numerous mid-level officers left the Polish formations chaotic and their firepower pitifully weak, yet like phantoms, no matter how fiercely Tuchkov’s soldiers fired, the Poles continued to drift appeared before their eyes.