The Qajar banners, gold and scarlet, flew over the citadel of Yelizavetpol. Below, across the open plain between the rivers, over thirty thousand men waited.
'These Russians, the resistance they offered at Ganja river was nothing short of pathetic, only slightly delaying my advance. The small Russian garrison had fled even before Nizam-i Jadid fully arrayed their lines. What a fool of a general they have, the wars already half won.'
Abbas Mirza stood on a low, dusty ridge, far enough from the conquered city to view the full expanse of his strength, yet close enough to feel the ground tremble beneath the tramp of his infantry.
The heat of the Transcaucasian summer, now turning to the sharp breath of autumn, pressed down on the basin, yet he felt only a cool sense of triumph.
With hands behind his back and head held high, he strode across the forward command post. The air smelled of baked earth, strong Persian coffee, and the comforting scent of leather from his vast cavalry parks. This was the scent of inevitable victory.
His focus shifted to the maps, tracing the winding, treacherous course of the great Kura River far to the east, which formed their natural flank. "We consolidate here, at Yelizavetpol. The Russians fear us. They are afraid to move their main force out of Tiflis. Send the scouts deep into the western hills, but keep a few Javan Shah patrols moving along the Kura River boundary. Let the Cossack dogs snap at our heels; they are irrelevant to the battle line." He had pinned the enemy on the Ganja front. The Kura was a defensive wall.
***
"The enemy expects a linear engagement, a defense of the position they have just won. We will grant them the appearance of this engagement at the Ganja River. Madatov's detachment is the bait. He must appear resolute enough to compel Abbas Mirza to commit and compress his main force into that narrow basin, but flexible enough to withdraw when the signal is given. This feint exploits the core vulnerability of the Persian army: its reliance on overwhelming mass and its inability to sustain cohesion under initial pressure."
***
A flicker of annoyance crossed Mirza's face. He had ordered rest and consolidation. Yet a rider---a captain from the Kura flank patrol---dismounted, breathless, his uniform streaked with dried river mud.
"My Prince," he gasped, his eyes wide with a fear that seemed disproportionate to the news. "Near the Kura River, far to the east… there is a concentration. Larger than expected. Not Cossacks, My Prince. It is infantry. And field guns."
"Preposterous!" He shouted, the word echoing the hubris in his chest. "The Kura River is a torrent---the largest river in Transcaucasia! They cannot simply cross it with their main force! It is a mere reconnaissance effort to annoy us. The true battle is here! at the Ganja river." Mirza Abbas waved him away. "Tell the Sardar to sweep their force away. They are merely trying to slow the siege preparations, but do not engage them seriously. Now, get out. I tire of insect problems."
***
"While the enemy's attention is fixed on the Ganja, our Separate Caucasian Corps will not move west. We move east. We execute a forced flanking maneuver, crossing the entire Kura River under the cover of night. Our Engineer Corps is utilizing every asset to lay the pontoon crossings and secure the routes for the heavy field guns. The Persian general believes the Kura is an insurmountable barrier. He has accounted for the water, but not the logistics, discipline, and audacity of the Imperial Army. If we succeed, we have used the two rivers---the Ganja and the Kura---not as defensive barriers, but as the inescapable walls of a killing box."
***
Abbas Mirza was mounted on the ridge, watching the first light of dawn paint the sky. His army was concentrated below, compliant, ready for the next day's orders.
Then came the sound.
It was not the popping of musketry from the frontal feint; it was the deep, rhythmic, continuous thunder of heavy artillery, and it originated from the rear--the direction of the Kura River.
He spun around, paralyzed, the smell of gunpowder and sulfur instantly overwhelming him.
"My Prince! The river!" screamed Asef al-Dowleh. "They have crossed the Kura! We are trapped between the rivers!"
When Abbas mirza heard his words, the sound of artillery went off, as he saw blood splash in the distance.
'N-No, this cannot be happening!'
***
"Once across the Kura, the final act is simple geometry and physics. The twenty-two field guns must be concentrated in a single, devastating battery overlooking the Persian rear, advanced to the very edge of the ridge. The artillery fires as one: first, the heavy Round Shot to disrupt the depth of the enemy formation. The fire is continuous---no pause for the enemy to recover---and then, the transition. We advance the guns to the optimal killing radius---Inside three hundred meters---and switch to Canister Shot. "
***
The artillery barrage intensified. It was no longer sporadic fire; it was a rhythmic, mechanical sound of mass slaughter. The guns advanced and delivered their purpose: the Canister Shot---each shell releasing a concentrated swarm of iron balls ---slammed into the massed ranks of the Nizam-i Jadid. The elegant lines of Abbas mirza's modernized infantry, already compressed by the feint, were physically shredded, not falling, but vanishing, their ranks blown apart by the equivalent of an enormous, synchronized shotgun blast.
***
"The application of overwhelming close-range firepower against a compressed mass of over thirty thousand men achieves one result: annihilation. The structural failure of the Nizam-i Jadid, their inability to execute a complex counter-maneuver under pressure, ensures they dissolve into chaos. Their numerical superiority becomes a fatal liability, trapping them in the killing box. The field is won by the system, not the body count. The final pursuit must be vigorous and relentless---13 Kilometers---to ensure the Qajar's will to continue the jihad is not merely broken, but eradicated."
***
I'm a sarbaz---a "risk taker," as they called us---in the Crown Prince's modernized Nizam-i Jadid infantry. After capturing the city I thought things would continue to go smoothly, but I couldn't have been more wrong.
I was standing in the third rank of my company, feeling the pressure of bodies around me. Thousands of men packed densely. I was so close to my comrades I could even feel the heat radiating off them.
Then, the signal came. But it was not the blast of a trumpet from Prince Abbas Mirza's command post.
It was the sound that started this HELL.
a continuous, deafening thunder that came from the absolute last place we expected: the distant ridge overlooking the Kura River. The sound was immense, guttural, and relentless, nothing like the scattered field guns we had faced before.
"BOOM!"
A cannon was fired, tearing through the deeper ranks.
"HELP!"
"SOMEONE PLEASE!"
"AGGHHHH!
"I-I" The man failing to utter a word was paralyzed, as he had never felt such fear in his life. Those cannons left a trail of mangled flesh and torn-blue cloth in their wake.
'I must run, I must leave as soon as possible!' was the soldiers thought.
But they were to close together, moving around was difficult.
"Move out the way!" He screamed, trying to push the others out. But he was not the only one, as many others were trying as well.
But then, the true horror began. The Russian fire changed. It became faster, closer, louder. And then...
"BOOOOM!!"
The Russian army fired a canister shot, as if a thousand muskets were fired at the same time. He saw a man two ranks ahead of him cease to be a man, exploding into a cloud of crimson mist and torn cloth. The canister tearing through their ranks like a reaper wielding a scythe.
Falling flat on the ground. but even then, the ground vibrated, and the thick stench of burnt sulfur and spilled intestines made me retch. I crawled over a comrade whose legs were gone, replaced by a red, splintered mess. The iron balls did not pierce; they fragmented. I saw severed limbs---a hand still clutching a bayonet---fly through the air. A man beside me tried to stand, and a volley caught him, shearing the top of his head clean off, leaving him staggering for a moment before collapsing into a headless pile of blue cloth and blood-soaked earth.
"MY ARM, MY ARM IS GONE!"
"NOO, MY LEG! HELP!"
The noise was relentless, continuous. The volume of fire was so absolute, and the cries of comrades so horrid that it paralyzed thought.
"This... This is hell" he mumbled.
Wanting to retreat he decided to scramble up and push past the officers whose face was blank with terror worse than mine, joining the frantic tide of men fleeing the fire.
He ran, scrambling over the grotesque battlefield, slipping in the warm, wet gore. The ground was littered with bodies in every conceivable state of fragmentation---decapitated, disemboweled, their limbs blown clean from their torsos.
Some, in sheer desperation, fled back toward the vast, swift Kura River, hoping to swim to safety in the distance. The Russian infantry and flanking light cavalry, now advancing into the gaps carved by their cannons, simply targeted these desperate souls as they tried to plunge into the icy torrent. I watched three men jump into the river; two were instantly killed by musket fire before they reached the current, and the third was swallowed by the cold, vast water, drowning.