Chapter 25

Shawn Lafrance stumbled back, his mind replaying the scenes from just moments ago...

This was a battle akin to a nightmare, where the bullets fired by his side were all blocked by the armor, while the enemy's bullets mercilessly reaped the lives of his soldiers. The muzzles of the enemy's cannons, which seemed to never stop, continuously spewed flames of death. No army could maintain its morale in such a situation without collapsing.

Thinking of this, Shawn truly understood the English and Dutch decision to retreat first. However, the bitter taste of defeat was something he had to endure, which was particularly disheartening.

Shawn staggered, supported by his young first mate, Julien d'Ablois from Franche-Comté. The sound of volleys of gunfire echoed from behind, undoubtedly the damned Tartar pursuit. Yes, they would not let him go; these savages would cut off his head to boast of their bravery, just as they had done for centuries.

The sound of hooves rang out behind them, and Shawn and Julien turned pale, turning around. Shawn instinctively drew his officer's sword.

Leonid Fyodorovich rode a magnificent Andalusian horse. Looking at the French and Dutch soldiers fleeing in all directions, he finally felt a sense of satisfaction reminiscent of his days galloping across the southern Russian plains. Ha, this was the life he wanted.

"Hmm?" Leonid narrowed his eyes slightly. The two well-dressed men in front seemed to be officers. One of them even dared to draw his decorative, more ornamental than practical, small sword. Was he out of his mind?

"Swish." The sharp 1932-pattern command saber sliced through Shawn Lafrance's neck, and the gushing blood splattered Julien's face. Julien stared blankly at the headless body of his commander, as if stunned and unable to react.

Leonid turned his horse, the blood-dripping saber pointing at Julien. Julien finally came to his senses, instinctively stepping back, but due to nervousness or some other reason, he fell to the ground.

Leonid shook his head in disdain and continued forward.

The morale of the French had completely collapsed. They were now focused solely on running back to the landing point and boarding the ships waiting in the sea. At first, their retreat was somewhat orderly, but as the sound of the Tartar guns and hooves grew closer, they discarded everything they could to escape this cursed place, and order broke down.

This created a perfect opportunity for the Cossacks to slaughter and drive the fleeing soldiers. The soldiers had turned their backs, and their weapons were either discarded or out of ammunition. The Cossack cavalry swung their sabers freely, herding them like sheep. These soldiers, who had lost their fighting spirit, surrendered in droves, weapons littering the ground.

The two-kilometer escape route seemed endless. When the fastest runner, the captain of the "Goodwill" John Stone, and four or five panting soldiers were stopped by Leonid's saber, the chase finally came to an end.

Leonid and a few Ukrainian comrades beat the British thoroughly and stripped them of all their valuables. The enemy fleet in the sea seemed to have noticed the commotion on shore, but they could not confirm the outcome of the battle immediately. With three of the four ship captains trapped on land, they needed to coordinate internally, so they could not react quickly.

Liao Meng and 48 soldiers almost marched to take over the surrendered French and Dutch soldiers, and the main force of the First Battalion followed to escort them back.

...

After the decisive battle by the wetlands, the members of the Executive Committee knew that victory was assured. After the main force went to pursue the enemy, the Internal Affairs Commissioner Jiao Tang organized a group of new Irish and Norwegian immigrants to clean up the battlefield, a move that also served to assert authority.

The battlefield after the battle was exceptionally bloody. Scattered bodies, wounded soldiers with missing limbs, and human organs and tissues everywhere could make even the most hardened soldier vomit. The Irish and Norwegian immigrants were no exception; the older ones fared better, but some teenagers collapsed and vomited on the spot.

A few First Battalion soldiers who had been guarding the ironclad nearby were also pale, having clearly vomited earlier. During the battle, they had no time to think, but now, with the lull, they had to catch up.

Jiao Tang, a former detective, walked through the bloody scene with a calm face. He had seen all kinds of corpses and was unperturbed. Most of the bodies were killed by muskets, with a few injured by cannons.

The dead were in terrible condition, having been hit by large-caliber muskets. The smallest wound was a large hole. If the bullet rolled inside the body, the death was even more gruesome.

There were also a few wounded, those who had not been hit in vital areas. But they were not much better off. In those days, if you were hit by a musket and survived, you would likely lose a limb; if you survived the amputation, you had to survive the infection. If you made it through that, you could consider yourself lucky to be alive.

Jiao Tang coldly observed the wounded lying in pools of blood, with no intention of helping them. These "war cattle" from Europe, if saved, would be cripples. Jiao Tang, an extremely cold and rational pragmatist, saw no value in them and let them fend for themselves.

The bodies needed to be buried quickly. It was already summer, and if not handled promptly, an epidemic could break out, which would be a disaster for everyone. Jiao Tang directed the people to find a barren area nearby and dig pits to bury the bodies.

Seven First Battalion soldiers were killed, including one穿越者. They were all hit in the face by stray musket balls during the firefight and died instantly, a rather unlucky fate. Their bodies would be buried in the national cemetery, and a funeral would be held.

By three o'clock in the afternoon, all the prisoners had been escorted back and would be taken over by the police of the Internal Affairs Department.

Peng Zhicheng gathered the First Battalion soldiers at the city gate again, as required by the Executive Committee. The committee organized a grand celebration, including a large distribution of food and alcohol, and the core event was the triumphal entry of the First Battalion into the city.

"Hey! These guys sure know how to make a fuss," Peng Zhicheng smiled, not refusing the committee's goodwill. After all, this would boost the soldiers' pride and honor and strengthen the cohesion and unity of the immigrants.

"Listen up, you brats!" Peng Zhicheng, who had just fought a real battle, spoke more boldly, "The committee has arranged a triumphal entry. Everyone, be on your best behavior. This is a chance to show off, so no one is allowed to mess up. The First Artillery Company and... um... the cavalry will also participate."

"Now, everyone, align to the right! Look forward!" Peng Zhicheng shouted, "Form a column! Shoulder arms! March! One two one... one two one..."

The First Company led the way, with Chang Kaisheng and Jiang Zhiqing at the front. Chang Kaisheng held his head high, chest out, eyes straight ahead, a slight smile on his face, and a flush of excitement. Jiang Zhiqing, walking beside him, looked similar. When the First Company appeared at the city gate, thunderous cheers erupted. Whether they were穿越者or new or old immigrants, they were genuinely grateful to these defenders. Many, regardless of whether they knew each other, hugged each other, shouting meaningless syllables, expressing their emotions.

Following the First Battalion were the men of the First Independent Field Artillery Company, who marched empty-handed behind the infantry, also receiving cheers.

Next were the 40 cavalrymen, who had been temporarily organized before the battle. Their horses had been taken by the livestock department, so they had to walk into the city behind the artillery. They were equally excited, their faces flushed, adorned with various war trophies, and their formation was somewhat disordered, with occasional hearty laughter.

Leonid, however, did not join in the laughter. He stood tall and handsome, his left hand on the 1932-pattern command saber, quietly scanning the crowd, as if searching for something. After scanning many times, Leonid turned away, somewhat disappointed, but suddenly his eyes lit up.

Li Xiaowei and a group of girls her age were huddled in a corner, pointing and laughing at the marching soldiers. Suddenly, they noticed a tall Ukrainian man walking quickly toward them, looking nervous, his right hand trembling in his pocket.

"It's you?!" Li Xiaowei, recognizing the Ukrainian man, exclaimed, clearly remembering who he was.

Leonid walked up to Li Xiaowei, instinctively avoiding her large eyes, and with what seemed like all his strength, he took his right hand out of his pocket, extending it to Li Xiaowei, and said in broken Chinese, "For... for... you! War... war trophy!"

Li Xiaowei's mouth formed an O shape. It was a dazzling string of red gemstones.