Wearing British clothes as a second-generation aristocrat

19. The Angry Lord

"Alright, since neither of you colonels is willing to back down, let's adjourn the meeting here for today."

Colonel Stevenson looked at Colonel Liscat with a blank expression.

And they call themselves alumni?!

Not giving me any face at all, shit, fuck.

Colonel Liscart snorted, stood up, straightened his uniform, and said, "Farewell!"

Having said that, he didn't linger. He turned and strode out of the tent, his figure quickly disappearing into the scorching sunlight.

Colonel Joseph, his face also cold, said, "Farewell," and then turned and left.

Watching the two figures disappear into the distance, Colonel Stevenson rubbed his throbbing temples, a look of exasperation on his face. "Don't go looking for trouble, unless trouble comes looking for you!"

Dugan silently stepped forward and handed him a glass of water.

Colonel Stevenson took the water glass, took a sip, and looked up at Dugan.

"Major Dugan, the 'regional joint defense and mobile clearing' tactic you just proposed sounds good. I need a detailed plan."

Dugan had already prepared his explanation, saying, "Since the three colonels are not subordinate to each other and cannot reach a consensus, why don't we compile this plan into a book and submit it to Major General Wellesley, the Governor of Mysore? Major General Wellesley holds military and political power in the Mysore theater, and his brother is Lord Richard Wellesley, the Governor-General of India, who controls the military and political power of the entire India."

Dugan paused, then continued, "If Major General Wellesley approves of this plan, I believe he can persuade his brother, in the Governor's name, to issue orders coordinating the three army groups in joint operations, forcibly allocating forces, and implementing the 'regional joint defense, mobile mopping-up' tactic. At that point, Colonels Liscart and Joseph, no matter how unwilling, will have to obey orders. Moreover, with Lord Wellesley's support behind us, our plan will be implemented much more smoothly."

Colonel Stevenson paced back and forth in the tent after hearing Dugan's account.

"Indeed, Major General Wellesley, the newly appointed Governor of Mysore, is also in dire need of a military achievement. If this feasible plan can be reported to him, he will certainly take it seriously."

Colonel Stevenson stepped out of his tent and gazed at the desolate Deccan Plateau, seemingly deep in thought.

Dugan urged, "Colonel, time is of the essence. We should quickly compile a plan, detailing the current situation on the front lines, the specific content of the plan, and the necessity of implementing it, and submit it to Major General Wellesley overnight."

"That's right, you're absolutely right!" Colonel Stevenson finally made up his mind. "Major Dugan, you'll be in charge of compiling the plan. Write down the tactical details, troop deployment suggestions, and the current casualties and resource consumption in a detailed and clear manner. I will personally review it and then immediately arrange for a messenger to travel day and night to submit the plan to Major General Wellesley."

Meanwhile, at a forward camp called Azisekhon, 78 miles north of Bangalore, Lord Wall Congriffin, commander of the British Mysore Command, convened a military conference for the entire army.

It was six in the morning, the sun had just risen above the hazy outline of the Eastern Ghats, but the heat was already beginning to rise and distort on the horizon.

Kang Griffin is 59 years old this year, and so far, he has spent a third of his life serving in India.

The years and the scorching South Asian sun sculpted his body into a form distinctly characteristic of the British of that era:

Her short, gray hair was cut very short, close to her scalp, and her hairline had receded to the back of her head, revealing a broad forehead that was tanned to a dark ochre color, covered with sunspots and wrinkles.

There is a thin scar below his left eye, which was grazed by the tip of a Frenchman's sword when he fought the French in Carnatic twenty years ago.

There is also a faint indentation on his left collarbone, which is from when a piece of shrapnel from a Mysore cannonball grazed off his collarbone during the siege of Seringabadan in 1792. That spot still aches slightly when the air pressure changes before the rainy season.

These damn cannons were also made by the French.

However, this old lord, who was over fifty years old, still stood as straight as a spear.

Every morning, while the rest of the camp was still asleep, he would be wearing a sweat-soaked linen shirt and practicing sword-wielding for half an hour in the open space outside his tent.

Moreover, the movements were precise and powerful, as if fighting an invisible enemy.

Congriffin’s men said privately that the Lord was not practicing, but waging an uncompromising war against his aging body.

Of course, another, less flattering interpretation is that the old lord doesn't want to retire yet and wants to continue receiving subsidies from the Royal Army to save money for his spendthrift son in London, who lives a dissolute and extravagant life.

At this moment, Lord Congriffin stood in the center of the command tent, which was made of thick canvas.

The tent's four corners were driven deep into the dry, hard ground with wooden stakes, but hot winds and brown dust could still seep in through the gaps, ruffling the edges of the map on the table.

Inside the tent, on a long table made up of a dozen or so empty ammunition boxes, lay a huge military map of central India that almost covered the entire surface.

The map was drawn three months earlier by the Calcutta Survey of the East India Company. It was accurate to the point that each inch represented five miles, and the terrain, rivers, roads, and towns were marked with different colored inks.

Arrows of various sizes, densely packed, drawn with a red pencil.

The arrows, resembling a giant steel comb with countless teeth, converge densely from the east, west, and north towards several points in the center of the map.

Delhi, Agra, Nagpur, Gwalior, Kanur.

The four corners of the map were weighed down with four hard, rock-like clods of earth to prevent the hot air constantly seeping in through the gaps in the tent from rolling the map up.

Seventeen people stood in the tent: the colonel commanders of the various infantry regiments, the artillery commander, the engineer chief, the logistics chief, the scout cavalry captain, and three senior staff officers from Congriffin.

Everyone's uniforms were soaked with sweat, forming dark sweat stains under their armpits and on their backs, but they stood upright and looked straight ahead.

"Gentlemen, we've been besieging Canul for three months," Congriffin said, waving a cane. "Yes, a full three months. But we've made no progress. Now the newly appointed Governor of Mysore has arrived, and he's given me a chance to explain why."

Having said that, Congriffin's gaze swept over the crowd. "Alright, I'll now give you the opportunity, gentlemen. Speak up!"

Congriffin's men had sharp eyes, but they were all keeping their eyes to themselves and remained silent.

After an awkward silence of about ten seconds, Congriffin chuckled self-deprecatingly and said, "No problem, I can explain it to Major General Wellesley like this: all my men are mute. Good idea, gentlemen!"

Congriffin turned around, his shoulders twitching twice, then suddenly whirled around and slammed the cane in his hand heavily onto the map.

Snapped

The force was so great that it sent dust flying into the air before it fell back down.

All the officers trembled with fear, as if the cane were striking them directly.

Lord Congriffin roared, "All I need now is an excuse, oh God, you stupid groundhogs, can't you even make up a lie?"