Wearing British clothes as a second-generation aristocrat

As dawn broke and the morning star had not yet completely disappeared, the soldiers of the 2nd Battalion of the 94th Infantry Regiment had already lined up in formation.

Lieutenant Colonel Haywood and Major McKenzie noticed that Dugan had also gotten up early; he and Tom each rode a horse, with Dugan's luggage on their backs.

"Good morning," Dugan greeted Haywood and Mackenzie naturally.

"A nice day, isn't it?" Haywood greeted Dugan politely.

"Let's go. Time waits for no one," Dugan said.

"That's right, the entire army, move out!" Lieutenant Colonel Haywood waved his hand triumphantly.

Thus, more than 600 officers and soldiers of the 2nd Battalion of the 94th Infantry Regiment set off for the Sholingur Camp amidst the morning mist.

Leaving the city of Mengorol and walking less than six kilometers west, I experienced the stark contrast between the two worlds of ice and fire.

The harshness of the Deccan Plateau's dry season hit them without reservation, enveloping the British soldiers in a scorching heatwave.

There is no sea breeze to soothe the soul here, only an endless expanse of ochre-red desert stretching from the hilly area on the south bank of the Nalmeda River to the vast plateau on the north bank of the Krishna River, as if it had been scorched by an invisible fire for a thousand years.

The three-month drought and high temperatures have long since evaporated the last bit of moisture from the soil, leaving the earth's surface cracked with fissures several feet deep and wide enough to fit a fist. These cracks crisscross the earth, resembling countless rotting wounds on the withered corpse of a giant beast, a grotesque and desperate sight.

The red soil under their feet was hardened by the sun, and the soldiers' boots made a crisp "crack" sound when they stepped on it. Fine red soil powder was blown up by the wind, covering the trouser legs and boot edges of their uniforms. A wipe would leave a layer of dark red.

The distant horizon was blurred and distorted into a swaying phantom by the heatwave, as if the entire earth was on fire, and even the air had become hot and sticky, with a burning sensation when you breathed it in.

Occasionally, you can see a few water buffalo lying paralyzed in the last remaining mud pits deep in the dried-up riverbed, their bodies covered in mud, panting heavily with their long tongues hanging out of their mouths, and their sticky saliva dripping onto the cracked soil, instantly evaporated by the scorching ground, leaving only a small dark mark.

Several local herders, their heads wrapped in turbans and their skin dark, were futilely striking the rumps of water buffaloes with polished wooden sticks, uttering hoarse shouts as they tried to drive these dying animals into the depths of the desert in search of a murky pond that might still exist.

The buffalo's hooves sank deep into the cracked mud, and when they were pulled out, they made a dull, teeth-grinding sound, like tearing old leather, which was particularly jarring in the vast desert.

"Damn the weather." How could Dugan, who had been pampered and spoiled since childhood, stand such heat?

He finished his water bottle early on. Luckily, Tom was an expert on India and had prepared plenty of water in Mengorol beforehand, which saved the young master from dying of thirst in India.

"Tom, give me the kettle," Dugan yelled impatiently.

"Okay," Tom replied.

Then look at the soldiers of the 2nd Battalion of the 94th Infantry Regiment, wearing heavy red uniforms, carrying heavy rifles, ammunition and packs, marching with difficulty in the scorching desert.

Sweat had already soaked through their collars and backs, sliding down their cheeks and dripping onto the red soil, evaporating instantly and leaving only a faint white mark.

Many soldiers had flushed faces, chapped lips, and tired eyes, yet they maintained their orderly ranks and marched with heavy steps toward their destination.

Fortunately, British soldiers are known for their strict discipline. Even the temporary reinforcements, despite being in such harsh conditions, did not desert their posts.

"Major, the dry season in the Deccan Plateau is even worse than the rumors say." Tom lowered his voice, his tone tinged with emotion. "I served in India for three years and I rarely saw such scorching weather. If we keep going like this, I'm afraid some soldiers will suffer from heatstroke."

Dugan nodded, his gaze sweeping over the weary soldiers in front of him, and said in a flat tone, "Tom, I'm just a major staff officer at the regimental headquarters; I don't have direct command authority."

"Of course," Tom smiled.

"However, I can suggest that Lieutenant Colonel Haywood consider my suggestion," Dugan said with a smile.

Tom immediately understood, quickly stepped forward, found Lieutenant Colonel Haywood, and conveyed Dugan's "suggestion".

Heywood and Mackenzie discussed the matter and then ordered that the troops rest briefly by the roadside locust bushes every hour of marching to replenish their water and relieve their fatigue.

And so, the army trudged on through the scorching dry season, stopping and starting, enduring one sweltering "hour" after another.

At noon, just as the soldiers were about to be pushed to their limits by the heatwave, a cheer suddenly came from ahead.

"Lieutenant Colonel, there is a lake of moderate size ahead, appearing at the end of the desert, with low-lying aloe vera growing along its banks."

The scouts ahead excitedly reported to Heywood.

"Attention! Halt!" Lieutenant Colonel Haywood shouted, his voice tinged with satisfaction. "Head to the lake immediately, fill all the canteens, rest for half an hour, and each company will take turns fetching water!"

Upon hearing this, the soldiers perked up instantly and quickened their pace, heading towards the lake.

They carefully walked to the lakeside, scooped up lake water with their kettles, and drank it in large gulps. The cool lake water slid down their throats, dispelling some of the heat and fatigue.

Many soldiers were wiping their faces and arms with lake water to relieve the burning sensation on their skin, and a long-lost look of relaxation appeared on their faces.

Just as the soldiers were orderly filling water and resting, several dark figures flashed past from behind the locust bushes and thorn bushes around the lake. Immediately afterwards, the sound of rapid hoofbeats came, getting closer and closer. Accompanied by ear-piercing shouts, hundreds of cavalrymen wearing headscarves, holding scimitars, spears, and rifles, rushed out from the hiding places from all directions.

However, instead of attacking the British forces directly, they circled around at a distance.

"Are they Maratha cavalry?" Dugan raised his monoculars.

Tom took the binoculars from Dugan, looked at them, and nodded, saying, "It looks very similar, but it could also be Jerry's bandits."

The Jericho bandits were actually a gang formed by the disbanded soldiers of the former Maratha League's Peshva (similar to a leader), after the disbandment of his army according to the Treaty of Basel. Therefore, the Jericho bandits were much stronger than ordinary bandits.

Lieutenant Colonel Haywood instantly sensed the danger and immediately shouted, "All soldiers, form hollow squares by company to defend against the cavalry! Rifles loaded, bayonets drawn, no firing without authorization, obey my orders!"

The soldiers, who had been relaxing, immediately put down their water bottles and quickly lined up.

Despite some initial unfamiliarity, after a brief period of confusion, the five hollow square formations were successfully assembled.

The soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, rifles pointed outwards, bayonets gleaming coldly, firmly protecting the camp and the lakeside water source, forming an unbreakable defensive barrier.

Hollow squares were a classic tactic used by the British to counter cavalry charges. They could both withstand a frontal charge by cavalry and provide mutual cover to prevent being outflanked by the enemy.

In the chaos, Dugan was protected by the soldiers and placed on the inside of one of the formations.

However, Dugan remained calm and ordered Tom to open his suitcase and take out the rifle and pistol that had been prepared and had been rifled.

"Tom, you'll be my loader," Dugan ordered Tom.

"Yes, sir."

Tom answered loudly and began loading, though the bullets he had bitten out of the paper tube looked strange, but now was not the time to think about that.

Tom skillfully loaded and tamped the rifle and pistol, then handed the pistol to Dugan and held the rifle himself.

It was only then that Haywood realized Dugan wasn't with him. After looking around, he found Dugan alone in another formation, which put him at ease.

Major McKenzie whispered, "He can only rely on God."

At this moment, the Marata cavalry had already charged to within a few dozen meters of the front of the square formation. They brandished their scimitars, shouted loudly, and their hooves pounded on the cracked red earth, making a loud "thump-thump" sound and kicking up clouds of red dust.

The cavalrymen looked fierce, their eyes gleaming with greed, staring intently at the British soldiers in the square formation, ready to charge at any moment.

Lieutenant Colonel Haywood, sword in hand, stood at the front of the formation, his eyes sharply fixed on the charging cavalry, his expression grave.

He gripped his sword hilt tightly, waiting for the cavalry to enter firing range, and shouted in a deep voice, "Hold on... hold on... do not fire without my order."

Dugan leaned against the inner side of the formation, gripping his modified pistol tightly, his gaze calmly fixed on the cavalryman charging at the forefront. He took a deep breath, suppressing a trace of tension in his heart; this was the first time he had truly faced a battlefield since his transmigration.

"Tom, give me the rifle." Dugan finally tossed the pistol to Tom and put on his own rifle.

"I'm going to show you how I hunt deer in Sherwood Forest." Dugan raised his rifle.