He was the first to urge his horse into the river. Behind him, without hesitation, hastened Předbor and Warte, after them Reynevan, Scharley and Samson, after them several dozen others, then the rest, stirring the water up white. When their horses’ hooves lost contact with the river bed, they began swimming.

The current struck the swimming horses straight ahead, and then lifted, turned and began to carry them downstream. Gripping his horse’s mane tightly, Reynevan watched horrified as several cavalrymen were swept away into the fog. He spurred his horse. Water splashed him, Samson struck out towards him, supported him, Scharley joined him and the three of them resisted the current. The remaining horsemen also began to gather into groups to bolster each other. In spite of that, every now and then a man and his horse were carried away; a man would cry out and a horse would squeal. They were in the centre of the river; the current was tremendously strong there.

“Hold on! Hold on!” shouted Zmrzlík. “We’re almost there!”

Carried by the river, they crossed two-thirds of it to where the current was a little weaker. But the horses were also weaker and despair could be heard in their panicked snorting. And they still hadn’t touched bottom. The water was above the riders’ thighs and reaching their waists and only the horses’ raised heads were showing above water. Once again, a rider was taken, once again a horse was carried off, frothing up the water in its dying convulsions, wheezing before the water flooded its lungs.

The nightmare was suddenly over. The river became shallow, the horses neighed wildly on feeling solid ground beneath their hooves, and they found the remains of their strength to struggle out through the bog, bulrushes and reeds. Jan Zmrzlík’s unit had crossed the Mulda. There he was, dripping water, standing on a hilltop, counting the survivors. The sun shone through the fog like a pale gold coin.

Having counted the men, the hejtmans formed up the column. The scouts had already gone ahead, one to the forests in the west, a second in a curve through the fishing villages to the north, and a third with the current, straight towards the ford by Kössern. But Zmrzlík had no intention of waiting for their return. He led his men out of the wetlands onto drier ground and ordered the march to begin. They urged their horses into a walk. The sun rose higher and higher, but it was soon hidden behind clouds blown by a strong wind. Fine snow began to fall.

The first scout returned. To the west—no one, he reported, not a sign of the enemy. The fierce expression remained on Zmrzlík’s face.

They were almost level with Kössern when the scout sent downstream returned. It was deserted, no soldiers, he reported. Morale improved visibly.