A band of outlaws had appeared near Tarnowskie Góry.
According to reports, the group was made up of Carpathian brigands and Bulgarian rcenaries who had fled to Austria. They were said to have committed several cris in towns like Chrzanów.
This information was published in the Little Poland News Gazette. Whether these events actually happened was uncertain, but people often preferred to believe such stories rather than dismiss them.
As a result, nearly half of Krakow's residents were gripped with fear, locking their doors well before nightfall.
Initially, the Umiayan Mining Company paid no attention to these rumors—until three French technicians were allegedly murdered while returning to their quarters.
General Manager Sienkiewicz hurried to the scene with a team, only to find large pools of blood and the technicians' empty wallets—with their nas embroidered on them.
This was a grave situation. The mine only employed 15 French technicians, any of whom were essential for operating the steam engines. Without them, the mine's operations could be paralyzed.
Of course, only Captain Ribel knew the truth: the three technicians had been secretly escorted back to France by his n, and the blood was just chicken blood.
The outlaws grew bolder by the day, openly robbing almost daily. They even attacked an Umiayan warehouse in Ursuha, looting its contents before setting it ablaze.
During a high-level company eting, Sienkiewicz furiously berated the tall man standing before him.
"Mr. Markowski, the outlaws burned down the Ursuha warehouse and walked away unchallenged! The guards didn't even put up a fight!"
Markowski lowered his head, looking deeply aggrieved. "General Manager, there were at least 60 or 70 outlaws that day, all ard with flintlock muskets. The warehouse only had 11 guards. If they hadn't retreated, they'd have been burned along with the building."
"Your patrol unit has over 300 n! And you still can't handle these bandits?"
Silver mines, of course, required paramilitary forces for protection, and Markowski was the captain of the mine's patrol unit.
"Indeed, sir. But Tarnowskie Góry covers over 40 versts [about 43 kiloters], and with nearby towns to protect, there are too many areas to defend.
"I've heard the outlaws number over 150. With the current strength of the patrol unit, we simply cannot fend them off."
A gray-haired board mber interjected, "Captain, how many n would you need to effectively resist the outlaws?"
Markowski thought for a mont. "At least 1,000 n, Sir Kieścików, and all of them must be ard with flintlocks."
Though the outlaws numbered only 150, their movents were unpredictable. To secure the mines, the patrol unit would need to station forces at every key location.
Second Manager Depeux chid in, "Organizing a standing patrol force of 1,000 would cost at least 800,000 zlotys."
As expected, the ntion of such an exorbitant sum prompted all the board mbers to shake their heads.
Ultimately, the board only authorized Markowski to add 150 n to the patrol unit and requested Krakow's garrison to assist in combating the outlaws.
However, just five days later, a far more severe incident occurred.
Depeux, the company's second manager and representative of French shareholder interests, was kidnapped along with his assistant, coachman, and maid by the outlaws.
The kidnappers demanded a ransom of 400,000 zlotys, threatening to kill their hostages if the paynt wasn't made.
Panic swept through the Umiayan Mining Company.
When the French technicians had been "killed," the French ambassador had already lodged a protest. Now that a high-ranking manager had been abducted, the situation threatened to escalate into a diplomatic crisis.
The board convened for only half an afternoon before deciding to pay the ransom from the company's funds to secure Depeux's release.
The 400,000 zlotys—equivalent to over 600,000 francs—was a hefty sum, but given the mining company's silver reserves, it was manageable. In other parts of Poland, with its struggling finances, such a ransom might have been impossible to raise.
To their credit, the outlaws honored their word, releasing Depeux, his assistant, and the coachman after receiving the ransom. However, the unfortunate maid was not returned.
The high-ranking officials of the mining company and Krakow's local authorities flocked to Depeux's villa to offer their condolences. The residence was packed with people.
Yet Depeux, instead of expressing relief, glared at the company executives with a dark expression.
"If you had allocated the funds to expand the patrol unit earlier, Denise wouldn't have fallen into those devils' hands!
"You must rescue her, or I'll lodge a formal complaint with the ambassador!"
Sienkiewicz attempted to placate him, "Mr. Depeux, she's just a servant. Surely there's no need—"
"She's more than a servant!" Depeux roared. "I want her back alive!"
The room fell silent as everyone realized the maid likely had a more personal relationship with Depeux.
Under the pressure of the kidnapping, Umiayan Mining Company finally agreed to expand the patrol unit to 650 n.
However, a week passed with no sign of Denise. Instead, the outlaws struck again, this ti robbing Chrzanów.
Depeux was incensed.
He approached Krakow's municipal commissioner, demanding the recruitnt of rcenaries to hunt down the outlaws, offering to cover the majority of the costs.
In reality, this money ca from the ransom paynt itself.
The Krakow City Council, equally troubled by the outlaws, welcod the proposal. Public unrest over the bandits threatened their chances in the next election.
With Depeux's contribution and 150,000 zlotys from the city, a total of 450,000 zlotys was allocated for hiring rcenaries.
anwhile, Depeux's request to provide military training for all mine workers was approved by the board—especially after he promised to procure 2,000 cheap flintlocks from France and cover half the cost himself.
The company's executives, seeing Depeux's desperation, dared not object.
The company quickly organized all the miners, as well as residents from nearby towns—most of whom depended on the mines for their livelihoods.
In total, over 4,000 able-bodied n began weekly military drills lasting six hours each.
While this training seed light, it was actually significant. Even armies in nations like England, France, and Austria typically trained only three to five days a month.
Moreover, these miners and townsfolk were put through field exercises under the guise of "anti-bandit campaigns." While they never encountered actual outlaws—since those were intelligence agents in disguise—they gained experience in marching, formations, and responding to orders in the field.
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