Life of Being a Crown Prince in France-Chapter 792 - 700 Loyalty and Shame (Seeking Monthly

Chapter 792: Chapter 700: Loyalty and Shame (Seeking Monthly Tickets!)

Chapter 792: Chapter 700: Loyalty and Shame (Seeking Monthly Tickets!)

In front of the ore washing pool, all the miners fell into a silence.

The distant rumble of hoofbeats seemed to hammer fiercely against everyone’s heart.

Makavsky glanced at the narrow mountain road behind him, which could barely fit two or three people abreast. Yet there were nearly two thousand miners and volunteer soldiers combined, and to get them all up the mountain would take at least half an hour.

The Austrian cavalry would not give them this opportunity.

He sighed and explained the current situation to Major Feikot’s translator, then said:

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“It seems that we have to repel those cavalry first.”

Feikot frowned and looked around at the miners who were already exhausted and covered in injuries, saying, “You need to regroup; retreat into the mountains first. I will hold them off here.”

“How can this be? You just saved…”

“Stop the chatter. You’re not capable of fighting right now.” Feikot patted him, looking down and saying, “Please trust me, this is not His Majesty’s decision, please forgive him.”

With that, he waved to the volunteer soldiers and shouted, “Form ranks. Quick, a three-row horizontal formation, block the mountain pass! The enemy might arrive here in more than ten minutes!”

Makavsky hesitated for a moment, but ultimately gave him a serious salute, then ordered the uninjured members of the patrol team to stay and help, and the rest to immediately retreat into Tarnovsk Mountain.

Old Vicha roughly counted the number of volunteer soldiers, sighed, and took off the grey-green coat he had only worn for a month, stuffing it into his son’s hands: “I told your mother that the tailor Miloch was charging too much, and she should return it, but she just wouldn’t listen.

“But this coat has come in handy now. It will be very cold in the mountains lately, so wear it.”

Young Vicha took the coat in surprise, about to ask, but then saw his father turn and run to Makavsky’s side, shouting, “Captain, I still have strength. Oh, I also have enough ammo.”

The latter nodded, signaling him to join the patrol team.

Young Vicha immediately wanted to follow, but was stared back by his father’s stern look.

The miners and mercenaries followed the winding path up the mountain, while next to the ore washing pool, 800 volunteer soldiers began forming ranks under the command of the officers.

A captured Austrian artilleryman who had been captured earlier cautiously raised his head and nudged his volunteer guard toward the back, whispering, “That cannon over there, perhaps, could still be used.”

It was basic protocol for artillerymen to spike the guns upon retreat or surrender to prevent them from being captured by the enemy, but he seemed not to have done so just now.

Soon, approximately five to six hundred Austrian Hussars appeared within Feikot’s view.

Behind the volunteer soldiers’ defensive line, the cannon roared, and a cannonball flew over the heads of the Austrian cavalry, startling them to duck their necks.

Most of the volunteer soldiers were small nobles or merchants, not very adept at operating cannons.

The Hussars sounded a series of whistles and did not charge through the bayonets of the volunteer soldiers. Instead, they skimmed over the front of their formation and unleashed a round of shooting with their short muskets.

The Austrian commander looked back to observe the formation of the volunteer soldiers, led his men around in a circle, and attacked again towards the weakest point.

Major Feikot then ordered the reserves to fill the gaps and commanded the back rank to shoot.

The cannon had switched to grapeshot and at close range, fired into the group of cavalry.

This time the widely dispersed shot finally took a toll, and three cavalrymen were flipped off their horses, with blood splattering far and wide.

But this Austrian cavalry unit was apparently Wilmze’s elite, and without any slowdown, they skimmed from their established position of attack, stirring up a turmoil within the volunteer soldiers’ ranks.

In this way, after the Hussars made five or six repeated charges, the defensive line of the volunteer soldiers had become twisted, and on the most protruding position on the east side, only about ten soldiers were still persisting.

If not for the help of the cannon, that spot might have already been torn open.

Cavalry Commander immediately spotted an opportunity and didn’t even order his troops to reload, but instead turned around on the spot and charged in a triangular formation towards that location.

“Victor, take people to block the left flank!” Major Feikot had already stood next to the defensive line, shouting loudly, “Also, aim the cannons there!”

Two squads of Hussars galloped past the protruding part of the volunteers, their horse sabers instantly sweeping down several soldiers.

These cavalry moved around to the right, and immediately following, another cavalry squad charged through the gap formed by the dead soldiers, brandishing their sabers.

Cannons roared, killing the four leading cavalrymen, but those behind trampled over their mangled bodies and viciously crashed into the infantry.

About a dozen horses, along with their riders, toppled over, with three or four more cavalrymen having already reached the front.

Standing in front of them, there were only two volunteers brandishing their bayonets.

Gunshots came from the rear ranks; it was reinforcement from Victor’s company, but they were more than 60 paces away, only able to run and shoot simultaneously. Meanwhile, the third wave of cavalry had already started moving.

Herbert Schmidt’s legs were trembling, his mind blank, knowing only to tightly grip his flintlock gun, waiting for those cavalry to crash onto his own bayonet, or, for their horse sabers to cleave into him.

Cavalry, with the force of a gust of wind, deftly avoided his bayonet. However, that saber reflecting the cold light came to a halt mid-air.

The cavalryman on the horse stammered, “Herbert? Is that you?!”

Herbert Schmidt looked up and saw under the sunlight, it was indeed his brother’s face.

“Brother?”

“Get out of the way, you’ll die!”

“No!”

Molt Schmidt roared, “Idiot, this is treason!”

“No, you’re the one committing treason! You’ve also betrayed Jesus!”

“I… Your Majesty…” Molt Schmidt raised his horse saber again, his face pale, “Move!”

Herbert Schmidt also gripped his gun tightly: “I am ashamed of you!”

More gunshots came from the rear columns. Two cavalries beside Molt Schmidt instantly slumped over on their horses.

The distant Cavalry Commander roared anxiously, “Schmitz, kill him!”

With the last two infantrymen gone, the pursuing cavalry would be able to break through that gap and then keep tearing at the sides until all those “Poles” were completely crushed.

Molt Schmidt’s saber seemed to be frozen.

All he could hear was “I am ashamed of you,” unsure if he should remain loyal to Your Majesty or heed the voice of conscience in his heart.

The hoofbeats from behind were drawing closer.

Suddenly, from the side and back came a “bang,” and Herbert Schmidt’s neck was torn open as he fell backward to the ground.

“No!”

Molt Schmidt turned his head and saw a cavalryman who had previously fallen off his horse now holding a short musket, with gunsmoke still drifting from the barrel.

His eyes turned blood red instantly, he wheeled his horse, and charged at that man.

In the moment his saber was about to pierce the shooting cavalryman, he suddenly closed his eyes, letting the horse saber drop to the ground…

But in that brief respite, Victor had already led his men to the gap in the formation, with dozens of bayonets pointing forward.