Burning Eastern Europe VII

At that moment, the gunfire from the farmhouse ahead abruptly ceased.

Drasowicz turned to look and saw more than a dozen Russian cavalrymen swarming around the back of the farmhouse from both sides, poking at the corpses of priest Staszak and the others with their sabers. He could not tell whether they were venting their rage or making sure the priest was truly dead.

The other soldiers had clearly seen it as well. They clenched their flintlock guns until their knuckles whitened, flames of fury churning in their eyes.

"Damn beasts!"

Someone roared with bloodshot eyes, "Let's avenge the priest!"

"Yeah, slaughter those sons of bitches!"

"Get back, all of you!" Although the commander of the Seventh Company was ashen, he stopped the soldiers and shouted, "We have to make Father Staszak's death count. We must hold the cannons!"

Everyone fell silent.

Drasowicz gritted his teeth. "Sir, what should we do?"

The company commander swiftly surveyed the crude artillery position beneath his feet.

It was a small earthen mound, slightly elevated. Other than a clump of trees behind them, there was nothing that could offer cover. The triangular wooden frames meant to defend against cavalry had only been placed there perfunctorily—just two of them.

In other words, the Russian cavalry could attack from several directions.

The howls of Cossacks carried from afar.

The company commander glanced at the cannon wheels buried in the soil—artillerymen often did this to make the cannons more stable when firing—and his brow furrowed deeply. There was no time to move the cannons.

Without time for further thought, he said to the soldiers, "Twenty of the strongest men, fix bayonets and form a semicircle. Protect the cannons as best you can.

"The rest of you, fire from the inside.

"Karolswaw, take a few men and bring