Chapter 701: Loyalty and Shame
In front of the ore-washing pool, all the miners fell into silence.
The distant thunder of hooves echoed like a relentless drumbeat pounding against their hearts.
Markowski glanced at the narrow mountain path behind him. It could only accommodate two or three people walking side by side. With nearly 2,000 miners and volunteers, it would take at least half an hour for everyone to ascend the mountain.
The Austrian cavalry wouldn't give them that much time.
He sighed and explained the situation to Fickert, the volunteer officer, then said:
"It seems we'll have to deal with the cavalry first."
Fickert frowned as he looked at the exhausted and wounded miners.
"You need to rest. Retreat into the mountains. We'll hold them here."
"That's not right—you just saved us, we can't let—"
"Enough!" Fickert interrupted, clapping Markowski on the shoulder. He then lowered his voice.
"Believe me, this isn't the Emperor's doing. Please, forgive him."
Then he turned to his volunteers, waving his hand and shouting:
"Form ranks! Quickly! Three-row formation to block the pass! The enemy will be here in ten minutes!"
Markowski hesitated, then solemnly saluted him before ordering the uninjured patrolmen to stay and assist. The rest of the miners and mercenaries began retreating into Tarnowskie Góry.
Old Wicha counted the number of volunteers and sighed. Then he removed the gray-green coat he had worn for barely a month and shoved it into his son's hands.
**"I told your mother that Miloch the tailor was charging too much and asked her to return it, but she didn't listen.
"Turns out, she was right. It'll get cold in the mountains soon—you wear it."
Young Wicha stared in confusion as he took the coat, about to ask a question. But his father had already turned and jogged over to Markowski.
"Captain! I still have the strength to fight—and I've got enough ammo!"
Markowski nodded and motioned for him to join the patrol.
"Father—" the younger Wicha began to follow, but his father silenced him with a stern glare.
As the miners and mercenaries wound their way up the narrow path, 800 volunteers formed ranks under their officers' direction at the ore-washing pool.
One of the captured Austrian artillerymen timidly raised his head and motioned toward the rear of the volunteers' formation.
"Uh... that cannon over there… it might still work."
Apparently, the artilleryman had neglected the standard procedure of spiking the cannon's touch hole before retreating or surrendering.
Before long, five or six hundred Austrian hussars appeared on the horizon, entering Fickert's field of vision.
The cannon roared, firing a shot that sailed over the Austrians' heads. While it caused no casualties, it startled the cavalry, who flinched instinctively.
The volunteers, mostly small landowners and merchants, were unskilled in artillery handling.
The hussars whistled and avoided a direct charge into the forest of bayonets. Instead, they galloped past the formation, firing a volley of short carbines.
The Austrian commander observed the volunteers' formation, then led his men in a wide arc to attack the weakest point.
Fickert ordered his reserve troops to fill the gaps and commanded the rear lines to fire. Meanwhile, the cannon was reloaded with grapeshot, aimed at the cavalry, and fired again.
This time, the scattered shrapnel brought down three riders, their blood spraying across the field.
Despite the losses, the hussars—elite soldiers under Wilhelm's command—didn't falter. They swept through the volunteer ranks, leaving chaos in their wake.
After five or six such charges, the volunteers' line began to buckle. On the easternmost flank, only about a dozen men remained standing.
If not for the cannon's support, the line might have already broken.
The Austrian cavalry commander spotted an opportunity. He didn't wait for his men to reload their carbines; instead, he ordered an immediate triangular charge at the vulnerable flank.
"Victor! Take your men and hold the left wing!" Fickert shouted from beside the line. "And redirect the cannon to cover them!"
Two squadrons of hussars galloped past the protruding section of the volunteer line, slashing several soldiers with their sabers.
The rear cavalry then charged into the opening, trampling over the bodies of the fallen soldiers.
Only two volunteer soldiers with bayonets raised stood in their way.
Gunfire rang out from the rear; Victor's reinforcements were approaching, but they were still over 60 paces away, firing as they advanced. Meanwhile, a third wave of cavalry was already preparing to charge.
Herbert Schmitz, legs trembling, gripped his musket tightly. His mind was blank—he only knew to hold his ground and brace for impact, waiting for a saber or a horse to collide with his bayonet.
A dark blur whipped past, the rider's saber gleaming ominously in the sunlight. But instead of slashing down, the rider froze mid-swing.
"Herbert? Is that you?!"
Herbert looked up in shock to see his brother's face illuminated by the sun.
"Brother?!"
"Move aside! You'll die!"
"No!"
Mort Schmitz shouted, nearly hysterical: "Idiot, this is treason!"
Herbert screamed even louder: "No, you're the traitor! You've betrayed God!"
"I... I..." Mort stammered, his face pale as he raised his saber again. "Get out of my way!"
Herbert tightened his grip on his musket. "I am ashamed of you!"
Gunshots rang out from behind. Two of Mort's fellow cavalrymen slumped in their saddles, falling lifelessly to the ground.
From a distance, the Austrian commander bellowed, "Schmitz! Kill him!"
All it would take was to clear out the last two standing volunteers, and the cavalry could exploit the breach. The subsequent charge would tear through the Polish line like a knife through butter.
Mort's hand trembled, his saber frozen in mid-air.
Herbert's words—"I am ashamed of you"—echoed in his ears. He couldn't decide whether to follow his emperor's orders or listen to his conscience.
The sound of approaching hooves grew louder.
Suddenly, a sharp crack split the air. An Austrian bullet tore through Herbert's neck, and he collapsed backward.
"No!" Mort screamed.
He turned to see a fallen cavalryman fumbling with a carbine, smoke still curling from its barrel.
Mort's face contorted with rage. He yanked his reins and charged at the man, saber raised.
As he reached striking distance, Mort suddenly closed his eyes and let his weapon fall to the ground.
That moment of hesitation was enough for Victor's reinforcements to close the gap. Dozens of bayonets bristled toward the Austrian riders.
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