Wearing British clothes as a second-generation aristocrat

14. Dugan shoots Maratha officer

If the first time was luck, then the second time was definitely not a coincidence.

The Marathas' flag bearers were shot one after another, which alerted the Marathas.

However, the Marathas did not know that the bullet came from more than 200 meters away, and instead suspected that British troops were lying in ambush nearby.

Before long, another flag appeared on the high ground, and several people dressed like officers appeared under the flag.

The officer approached the body of the slain standard-bearer, then gestured wildly and shouted at his men.

So the third flag bearer nervously took over the flag from the previous two.

Dugan saw all of this clearly through his binoculars.

"So you're the one in charge." Dugan put down his binoculars and raised his rifle again, but this time his target wasn't the standard-bearer, but the officer next to him who was bossing around his subordinates.

As the art of war says, "Strike while the iron is hot, but the momentum will wane with each second attack and be exhausted with each third."

The Maratha raid failed to rout the British army in one fell swoop, and after a brief period of chaos, the British began an organized counterattack.

The Marathas' charge did not stop, but their scimitars, spears, and muskets were no longer as fierce as before when facing the gradually calming British troops' brownbes rifles.

Amidst the scorching red dust, the newly appointed standard-bearer, holding the Marata flag, stood two hundred meters behind the ranks, waving the flag and shouting encouragement to the soldiers to continue their attack.

Dugan's gaze was fixed intently on the commander.

In an effort to stabilize morale and boost the troops' spirits, the Maratha officer deliberately stood in a relatively conspicuous position, gesturing wildly and exposing himself completely to Dugan's view without any attempt at concealment.

This is a great opportunity.

Without hesitation, Dugan took the rifle that Tom had loaded again, slowly adjusted his posture, and aimed at the commander's head. Based on Dugan's estimated trajectory, the bullet would eventually hit the man's chest.

At a distance of two hundred meters, the wind blew the red soil powder, slightly affecting visibility, but Dugan's hand remained steady without the slightest tremor.

He held his breath, and the instant the commander raised his hand to reprimand him again, he decisively pulled the trigger.

"Bang!"

The bullet struck the commander precisely in the chest, the immense kinetic energy tearing through his leather armor, and a spurt of blood gushed out.

The commander's fierce expression froze instantly, a look of disbelief flashed in his eyes, and then his body went limp and he collapsed to the ground.

The guards around him panicked and rushed over, but it was too late to save their commander's life.

Before long, horns sounded from the Maratha camp.

The Maratha soldiers, who had been fighting desperately, had lost all their initial courage to charge forward; their faces were now filled with fear and panic.

Some men threw down their weapons and fled into the depths of the desert. Soon after, more and more Maratha soldiers fled.

The cavalry galloped wildly, while the infantry fled in disarray. What had been a frenzied attack instantly turned into a rout and retreat.

"Fire in place! Fire in place!" Lieutenant Colonel Haywood shouted the order.

Gunfire erupted again, and a hail of bullets pierced the backs of the fleeing Marata soldiers. Many of them fell to the ground, but this did not stop the others from running away.

The Maratha soldiers were only concerned with fleeing in disarray, running wildly into the locust thickets and thorn bushes, and soon disappeared at the edge of the desert, leaving behind only corpses, weapons and scattered flags.

Only after confirming that the Maratha soldiers had completely retreated and showed no signs of counterattack did Lieutenant Colonel Haywood slowly lower his sword and loudly order: "Cease fire! Assemble all personnel and take stock of casualties and material losses!"

The soldiers put down their rifles and wearily lined up to assemble.

After this sudden encounter, the area around the phalanx was in complete disarray. The reddish-brown soil was stained dark red with blood, and the ground was littered with the corpses of British and Maratha soldiers, broken weapons, scattered ammunition pouches, and helmets.

The air was thick with the stench of blood, gunpowder, and the earthy hue of gunpowder, creating a pungent and unpleasant atmosphere. The scorching wind still howled, but the sounds of battle were gone, replaced only by the heavy breathing of the soldiers and the occasional groan.

Major McKenzie, accompanied by several officers, moved around the formation, counting the number of casualties and recording the material losses.

Dugan, mounted on his horse, looked down at the battlefield, a scene that could only be described as a field strewn with corpses.

This is war—cruel and merciless, every victory accompanied by bloodshed and sacrifice.

A moment later, Major McKenzie strode up to Lieutenant Colonel Haywood and Dugan. "Report, headcount complete. Our battalion suffered 98 dead and 184 wounded, including 47 seriously wounded and 137 slightly wounded; 32 rifles lost, more than half of the ammunition used, and some tents and provisions damaged. Overall, the losses are considerable."

Upon hearing this, Lieutenant Colonel Haywood's face darkened instantly, and he sighed softly.

Ninety-eight soldiers were killed and 184 wounded, a devastating loss for a 700-man infantry battalion. But Lieutenant Colonel Heywood knew that in this sudden ambush, it was already a stroke of luck that they had held their position and routed the enemy.

He turned his head, his gaze landing on Dugan, and said sincerely, "Major Connby, on behalf of the soldiers of the 2nd Battalion, 94th Infantry Regiment, I thank you. Without you, our battalion would likely have already been breached by the enemy, and the consequences would have been unimaginable. You remained calm under pressure, and with your superb marksmanship, you successively shot and killed the enemy standard-bearer and commander, shattering their morale and stabilizing the situation. Your contribution is invaluable!"

Major McKenzie, standing nearby, quickly chimed in, his eyes filled with admiration: "Yes, Major Connaught, your marksmanship is superb! Hitting the flag bearer and the commander consecutively from 200 meters away, every shot hits its mark, you're a true sharpshooter! Truly admirable."

While they were talking, Haywood and Mackenzie were standing on the ground, while Dugan remained on horseback.

Hearing Haywood and McKenzie's compliments, Dugan simply waved his hand, his tone indifferent, "It was my duty, nothing more. I just did what I was supposed to do. The ones who truly held the formation were the lieutenant colonel, the major, and all the soldiers."

Lieutenant Colonel Haywood looked at Dugan's humble demeanor, but inwardly cursed, "That damned aristocratic tone, arrogant, pretentious."

However, Lieutenant Colonel Haywood had to admit that this young noble strategist was not only capable but also humble and composed, making him far more reliable than the arrogant and incompetent playboys he had encountered before.

Heywood patted Mackenzie on the shoulder and said solemnly, "Major Mackenzie, write a report and truthfully report everything that happened today to Colonel Stevenson."

"Yes, sir," McKenzie replied.

Lieutenant Colonel Haywood immediately ordered medics to treat the wounded soldiers, collect the bodies of the dead, organize supplies, and after a short rest, continue to the Schollingur camp. There was no need to waste any more time in the wilderness.