North of Smolensk, Smolens Town.
Prince Bagrationi wiped the ice crystals from his beard and shouted to the battalion commander of the Cossack Cavalry, "Have you found them?"
The latter's voice carried through the slanting snowflakes. "Not yet, General. This damned snow has buried the Poles' tracks." "Expand the search area! In snow this heavy, they can't have gone far!"
The prince from Georgia gazed at the vast white world before him, his brow deeply furrowed.
The Polish rearguard had suddenly left Yartsevo Crossing, leaving him caught between a rock and a hard place—according to news from General Headquarters, the Polish Army's vanguard had already withdrawn, so their rearguard had most likely headed east to meet them.
Of course, it was also possible that the Poles had realized they were in an unfavorable position and fled directly west toward Orsha.
General Kutuzov's orders to him had been to keep close to the Polish Army and harry them, wearing down their supplies.
Yet a day and a half had already passed, and he still had not found a trace of the Polish rearguard.
Just as Bagrationi was hesitating over whether to send out his elite Hussars to scout as well, two Cossack Cavalrymen suddenly burst from the heavy snow, shouting in this direction, "Poles! Alarm—it's the Poles!"
Bagrationi instinctively ignored the word "alarm" and asked delightedly, "Where are they?"
A Hussar spotted his banner and ran straight over. "Five kilometers south of here, General! They're deploying their formation—there are roughly fifteen thousand of them!"
Bagrationi could not help but feel a jolt in his heart.
Though he had twenty thousand troops, they were currently deployed for pursuit. Fortunately, it was snowing, so the Poles could not launch an attack. Otherwise, he would most likely have been caught completely off guard.
He