Chapter 700: Despair and Hope
Finally, the commanding officer's voice rang out nearby: "Aim! Fire—"
Old Wicha and his son raised their muskets and fired at the Austrian soldiers ahead.
However, their side had no real formation, and their shooting was irregular. Only about a dozen Austrian soldiers fell.
In contrast, the Swiss mercenaries quickly formed a column, unleashed a disciplined volley, and killed dozens of enemies at close range.
Markowski immediately pointed to the opening created by the Swiss and shouted, "Focus your attack there!
"Hold the line! For the mine! For Poland!"
Old Wicha signaled his son to move toward the breach. They advanced cautiously, stopping to reload and fire.
His brow furrowed as he prayed silently—not for his safety, but for his son's. He wished that every bullet aimed at his boy would somehow find its way to him instead.
Then, thoughts of their recent comfortable life filled his mind: buttered white bread, evenings at home, and the girl his son liked—the one from the Donard family.
If we drive the invaders away, they can get engaged, he thought, quickening his pace.
When he was just 50 paces from the enemy, he abruptly stopped, raised his musket, and fired.
A spray of blood erupted from the man he hit.
He glanced back to check on his son, then calmly reloaded his weapon.
Bullets whizzed past his ears, but his prayers seemed to work—none struck him.
He moved forward a few more steps, fired again, and reloaded.
The number of comrades around him dwindled. His mind went blank except for one thought: I will not retreat.
Suddenly, a shout came from behind him. "Ah!"
His heart sank, and he spun around, fearing the worst. But his son was getting back to his feet, covered only in dirt.
"I'm fine!" the young man shouted, aiming his musket. "I just tripped."
Wicha nearly wept with relief. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on until he was nearly at the Austrian line.
Several patrolmen rushed past him, and he caught a glimpse of Markowski leading them.
"Marek, keep up!" Wicha shouted to his son. "We're almost there!"
The young Wicha was already following Markowski.
The patrol unleashed a coordinated volley, further widening the breach in the Austrian line.
A patrolman near Wicha was hit, and blood splattered onto the ground at his feet. Trembling, Wicha reloaded his musket, ready to take the next bullet himself if needed.
Then, shouts erupted from the Austrian side. Suddenly, they began to retreat.
Unbeknownst to Wicha, the shot he had fired earlier had struck a key Austrian officer in the rear ranks.
The panic spread quickly. Within three minutes, the entire Austrian line disintegrated. Even the officers tasked with enforcing discipline were swept away in the chaos, fleeing with the 1,500 panicked soldiers.
A few stray gunshots echoed before the battlefield fell silent.
Markowski emerged from the smoke, holding his musket high and shouting:
"We've won! We drove them back!"
Around him, miners began to weep and cheer.
"I'm alive! I'm alive!"
"Anthony, are you okay?"
"Those cowards—they ran!"
"Yes, we won! We won!"
Old Wicha looked around at the field of corpses, his emotions numb. He hugged his son tightly, grateful he was still alive.
Despite their victory, it had come at a steep cost. Nearly 400 miners and mercenaries lay dead, while the Austrians had lost just over 100.
But the Polish fighters had stood their ground, refusing to falter despite their crude marksmanship. Their unwavering determination had broken the Austrians' already fragile morale.
Markowski shouted again: "Drummers, where are you? Come forward! And flag bearers—quickly! Gather everyone! We need to get into the mountains immediately!"
The surviving miners and mercenaries regrouped and followed Markowski around the washing ponds toward the mountain path.
Just as they neared the trail, the distant sound of military drums froze them in their tracks.
A gust of wind cleared the lingering smoke, revealing a chilling sight: 200 paces away stood another long line of Austrian soldiers, calm and orderly, waiting.
It was clear now that Wilhelm had planned multiple defensive lines, leveraging his numerical superiority.
Wicha's mouth went dry. He glanced at his son and quietly began reloading his musket.
Markowski took a deep breath, grabbed the company flag, and marched to the front of the line.
"Follow me! We can win again!"
But he knew the truth. The previous battle had drained their strength and morale. A few hours of rest might have given them a chance, but now, they were likely to fall at the foot of Tarnowskie Góry.
The mercenaries hesitated. Though the mining company had promised them high pay, the odds were now insurmountable. They had no desire to throw their lives away.
Yet the miners rallied around Markowski, forming a ragged line. The drums beat once more, and they began their march toward the Austrians.
This was their home. This was their mine. If they didn't fight, who would?
As the 1,000 miners moved into musket range, the Austrian soldiers stared in disbelief. These blackened, bloodied men—many of them injured—still advanced with unwavering resolve.
For a moment, the Austrians froze, unsure whether to fire.
Markowski shouted, "Aim! Fire!"
The miners fired, reloaded, and marched closer.
Old Wicha crossed himself, whispering, "Lord, grant us your grace…"
He couldn't help but notice that the Austrian firepower seemed weaker than before.
When the miners halted and unleashed a volley under Markowski's orders, several gaps appeared in the Austrian line.
The cracks widened as terrified Austrian soldiers fled, shouting incoherently.
Some, blinded by panic, ran straight toward the miners and were cut down on the spot.
Young Wicha leaned over and pointed ahead: "Father, I think I hear gunfire from farther away."
Ten minutes later, the remaining Austrians dropped their weapons and knelt, surrendering to the stunned miners.
Then, from the smoke behind the Austrian lines, another group of soldiers emerged—uniforms mismatched but weapons at the ready.
"Reinforcements!"
Markowski raised his musket, shouting, "We are the resistance army of Umiayan Mining Company. Thank you! Who sent you?"
A voice responded in broken Polish, "We are volunteers from Nowy Sącz—Crusaders!"
After cautiously making contact, Markowski confirmed their identity when Fikert, their commanding officer, presented documents from the Polish government.
"Thank God!"
"Long live the Crusaders!"
"You are the true Austrians!"
As the miners celebrated with their new allies, Fikert suddenly frowned, turning toward the south.
From that direction came a sound like torrential rain striking rooftops.
Cavalry!
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