Wind Rises in North America 1625

Chapter 602 Annihilation (Part Two)

The forest is like an ancient behemoth, devouring everything with its endless darkness and complex environment.

From the moment Poyakov and his men stepped into this dense forest, they were destined to become prey.

Initial fear drove them to flee desperately into the depths of the forest until they were exhausted and collapsed on the cold humus.

However, before he could catch his breath, that persistent sense of crisis returned.

"Click."

Another soft snapping sound of a dry branch breaking, closer and clearer than before, as if it were right next to my ear.

This time, it was accompanied by a very faint whistle, like the chirping of a titmouse, short and rhythmic, conveying some kind of ominous signal in the silent forest.

“Someone…” A Cossack opened his mouth, but his voice stopped abruptly.

An arrow with black feathers at its tail emerged silently from the depths of the dense forest and pierced his throat with pinpoint accuracy.

His eyes widened, his hands futilely grasping at the arrow shaft, a hissing sound escaping his throat, before he collapsed heavily to the ground.

"Enemy attack!...Take cover!" Old Andrei roared hoarsely, while simultaneously shrinking his body behind a thick larch tree.

Panic spread through the ranks like a plague.

The Cossacks panicked and rushed towards the nearest tree or fallen log, haphazardly raising their matchlock guns in an attempt to find a target to retaliate.

However, apart from the rustling of the wind through the treetops and the convulsing of his dying companion, there was no other sound in the forest.

The enemy vanished like a ghost after firing a fatal arrow.

"Where? God, where are they?" Parkin huddled beside Poyakov, his voice trembling, his musket waving blindly at the empty jungle.

Poyakov leaned against a cold pine tree, his heart pounding. He could feel the rough bark digging into his back through his tattered clothes.

He stared intently at the direction from which the arrows had come, where there were only layers upon layers of bushes and shadows, like a giant maw ready to spew death out again at any moment.

“We’ve been targeted…” Andrei lowered his voice, a grave expression on his face. “It’s native hunters… they’re the masters of this forest.”

As if to confirm his words, a shrill scream suddenly came from another direction.

A Cossack hiding behind a bush a little further away stepped on a cleverly disguised lasso. His ankle was suddenly tightened, and he was hung upside down, head down, swaying and struggling helplessly in the air.

Before anyone else could react, another arrow pierced the air, ending his suffering.

"We can't stay here! Move! We have to break out!" Poyakov finally recovered from his shock and commanded hoarsely.

Staying put meant certain death; the dense forest provided the pursuers with perfect cover.

The surviving Cossacks, like startled rabbits, began to run wildly once more.

But this time, they were prey being driven by an invisible hunter.

The hunt is no longer a figment of imagination, but has become an omnipresent reality.

The days that followed became the longest and darkest nightmare of these Cossacks' lives.

The forest was no longer silent in their eyes; every corner of it could hide deadly danger.

A seemingly natural vine might be the mechanism that triggers a crossbow bolt.

A flat patch of fallen leaves might conceal a trap pit filled with sharp wooden stakes.

Even a seemingly stable piece of rotten wood will shatter the moment you step on it, revealing sharp splinters inside.

"Ah..." A shrill scream occasionally broke the silence of the forest.

A Cossack stepped on a "treadle trap," a trap made of tough wood and animal sinew. The trap snapped shut instantly, the force of which nearly broke his shinbone. He fell to the ground, howling in pain, until a hunter who had been tracking him down coldly finished him off with a knife.

Ambushes are ubiquitous.

As they struggled through a relatively open forest clearing, several figures would suddenly rise from the treetops on either side, bowstrings would snap, and arrows would rain down like poisonous bees.

"Bang! Bang!"

Occasionally, a few muffled gunshots would ring out, bullets piercing the bodies of running Cossacks with precision.

On one occasion, they were forced behind a jagged pile of rocks, attempting to launch one last organized counterattack using the terrain. Several Cossacks frantically lit a match with trembling fingers and pulled the trigger at the figure vaguely moving at the edge of the woods.

Several Cossacks hurriedly lit the fuses and opened fire on the vaguely visible figures.

"Bang! Bang!"

Several old matchlock guns spewed smoke and fire, but to little effect.

The figures flashing through the woods opposite were too fast, and their judgment of distance was seriously flawed due to extreme tension, so most of the lead bullets hit the tree trunks.

However, the opponent's counterattack was swift and deadly.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" Several crisp gunshots rang out.

A Cossack who had just finished firing and was reloading suddenly had a burst of blood on his shoulder, screamed and fell backward.

"They...their muskets don't use matchlocks!" Another Cossack exclaimed in horror as he watched three soldiers in half-plate armor and iron helmets, a few dozen paces away, smoothly lower their still-smoking muskets from their standing positions and begin reloading ammunition—pouring powder, loading the bullets, tamping them down...the whole process was quiet and swift, with no need to worry about the wind extinguishing the matchlocks.

"For the Tsar! Hurrah! Charge and fight!" A desperate Cossack leader, brandishing his Cossack saber, led three or four men in a desperate charge, attempting to close the distance and engage in the close-quarters combat they were skilled at.

They rushed across the distance of several dozen steps and were about to reach the grove of trees.

However, the soldiers carrying muskets did not turn and run away as expected, nor did they panic and drop their muskets or draw their short blades.

Their movements were perfectly synchronized, and with a clang of metal scraping, one after another, gleaming and uniquely shaped "gunswords" were fitted onto the mounts at the front of the gun barrels.

In the blink of an eye, the musket transformed into a terrifying spear.

The Cossack leader at the forefront roared and slashed at one of the enemy soldiers with his saber.

The soldier calmly parried, using the bayonet-equipped gun to deflect the saber, and moved swiftly with a sudden thrust.

The Cossack froze instantly, his face filled with disbelief, pain, and shock.

The soldier quickly withdrew his bayonet, letting the Cossack's wound bleed profusely, before collapsing to the ground in a daze.

Several other Cossacks who charged were swiftly stabbed down by other soldiers with bayonets, or hacked to death by native warriors providing cover.

The advantage of close combat is completely negated when facing a well-organized enemy equipped with bayonet flintlock muskets.

Hope, like their rapidly depleting strength, was slowly slipping away.

The food was long gone.

They tried digging for roots, searching for wild fruits, and hunting animals, but in the early spring forest, there was very little to eat, and the relentless pursuit of death behind them gave them no time to stop and search carefully or hunt.

Hunger gnawed at their stomachs and ravaged their will.

Cold is another relentless enemy.

Their clothes, soaked with sweat and dew, clung coldly to their skin, offering no warmth whatsoever. The forest nights were cold enough to freeze their souls; they huddled together like a pack of young animals, shivering, barely managing to get any warmth.

Chills and fever began to spread among the ranks.

Exhaustion, fear, and despair reached a breaking point for almost everyone.

A young Cossack finally couldn't take it anymore. He stopped his pointless running and stood blankly in a clearing in the woods, staring at the first light of dawn, his eyes vacant, repeatedly muttering, "Home... Mom... I want to go home..."

When an indigenous hunter emerged from behind the tree and raised his bow and arrow, he did not react; he simply closed his eyes calmly.

Pierced through the heart by a sharp arrow, he collapsed limply, a hint of relief even on his face.

On another occasion, three Cossacks were surrounded by a group of Xinhua soldiers and natives in a dry ditch.

Seeing the menacing muzzles of guns and the gleaming blades of blades, one of them suddenly threw down his weapon, raised his hands, and shouted in Russian, his voice trembling with tears, "Surrender! We surrender! Don't kill me!... We lay down our weapons!"

After a brief moment of stunned silence and hesitation, his two companions, driven by their survival instincts, also laid down their weapons.

However, what they received in return was the cold gaze of the new Chinese squad leader and his unwavering command: "Kill!"

The volley of flintlock musket fire and the subsequent crossbow bolts instantly drowned out the pleas for mercy.

They seemed to have no intention of taking any prisoners from these brutal invaders.

The number of people in the team is decreasing rapidly.

Eighty-something, sixty, forty...

Every day, people fall, either killed by traps, killed in battle, or fall behind due to injuries, hunger, and cold, and are then eliminated by pursuers who follow like ghosts.

Poyakov himself was also shot in the shoulder during an ambush. Although the shaft broke off, the arrowhead remained embedded in his flesh, causing excruciating pain with every movement.

He became increasingly silent and sinister, the last vestiges of his former commander's authority long gone, replaced by a desperate madness and obsession.

He knew he was finished, the expedition was finished, and all his ambitions and dreams would be buried in this unfamiliar forest.

The tenth day, or the eleventh day?
Time has lost its meaning.

Poyakov was left with only four people: the clerk Palkin, who was on the verge of insanity; the old Cossack Andrei, who was covered in wounds but still gripped his saber tightly; and two soldiers with numb eyes who moved only by instinct.

The rest either scattered or died in the jungle.

They stumbled and fell across a damp swamp, their clothes soaked with mud and water, heavy and cumbersome.

Finally, they heard the sound of flowing water.

A stream, not very wide but with clear water, came into view.

“The water…it’s running water, clean…” Parkin’s chapped lips moved, a glint of light flashing in his eyes.

They pounced on the stream like wild beasts, burying their heads in the icy water and greedily swallowing it.

Poyakov also knelt by the stream, cupped his hands in water, and hastily washed his face. The icy water sobered him up a little.

He subconsciously looked at his distorted reflection in the water—a man with sunken eyes, a stubble beard, and a madman-like appearance, who looked nothing like the commander of the Tsar's expedition team.

At that very moment, a figure reappeared in the woods on the opposite bank of the stream.

There were only seven or eight people.

Two of the Chinese soldiers, dressed in blue uniforms and carrying flintlock pistols, stood out, while the rest were indigenous hunters armed with bows and arrows and short knives.

They watched the trapped beasts by the stream in silence, their eyes like those of prey caught in a trap.

“It’s over…” Parkin collapsed to the ground, the icy stream water sending a shiver down his spine. “Oh God, it’s all over…”

Andrei spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, gripped his saber with his last ounce of strength, straightened his hunched back, and wore a resigned calm on his face: "It seems this is the burial place the Holy Mother has chosen for us..."

Poyakov stood up unsteadily, the wound on his shoulder reopening with the movement, blood seeping out and staining his tattered clothes red.

He looked at the Chinese musketeer on the opposite bank, who was clearly the leader. The man's face was expressionless as he held his musket, exuding a chilling killing intent.

"For the Tsar! Kill..."

In his final, dying moments, Poyakov's ferocity was unleashed. He raised the Cossack saber adorned with a few silver threads, let out a roar that was not human, and waded through the stream to charge forward.

"boom!"

A sharp gunshot rang out, interrupting his roar.

The Chinese musketeer captain on the other side of the strait pulled the trigger without hesitation.

The flint strikes the flint, sparks fly, ignite the powder bath, and the gunpowder explodes, precisely sending a lead bullet out of the barrel.

Poyakov's voice abruptly stopped.

He felt as if he had been struck hard in the chest by a heavy iron hammer, the force of which made him stagger backward.

He looked down and saw a small bullet hole in his left chest from which bright red blood was gushing out, quickly staining his tattered shirt.

The military knife clattered to the ground on a rock by the stream.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but only blood foam came out.

"Bang!" Another shot rang out, piercing a bloody gash in his lower abdomen.

Poyakov's body fell backward uncontrollably, and his vision began to blur and darken.

"Pfft!"

When Vasily Poyakov, the Cossack leader who set out from Yakutsk, full of ambition, collapsed heavily by the cold stream. The last thing his cloudy eyes saw was the narrow and gray sky above the foreign forest.

His death was like a signal.

The rest of the battle began and ended in an instant.

Arrows whistled, bayonets charged, and swords and axes slashed.

Old Andrei roared as he slashed down a charging native hunter, only to be pierced through the chest by two short blades at the same time.

Parkin was slashed and thrown into the stream amidst his desperate cries and pleas, his blood staining the water around him.

The last two Cossacks futilely raised their weapons in an attempt to resist, but were quickly hacked to pieces and fell beside their leader's corpse.

The streamside is quiet once more.

Only the sound of flowing water continued to murmur, as if the brief killing had never happened.

The pursuers silently cleaned up the battlefield, confirming that every Cossack was dead, finishing them off with daggers just in case, and collecting any remaining valuable loot.

They paid no special attention to Poyakov's body, merely searching it casually like any other corpse, collecting his blood-stained exploration log and a few crudely drawn maps before leaving the killing field.

The Poyakov expedition, which ventured into the vast Outer Khingan Mountains and the Heilongjiang River basin, initially consisted of more than 130 people. In the end, only five people miraculously survived the perilous situation thanks to inexplicable luck, and escaped back to Yakutsk in a state of extreme mental collapse.

They brought back descriptions of the richness of the southern “Ducher” (Jurchen) lands, as well as terrifying stories of the power of the “new Chinese” and the ferocity of the local natives, and… the devastating news that the Poyakov expedition was almost completely wiped out.
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(End of this chapter)