Baltimore smelled different after a fight.
Not like victory. Not like defeat. More like iron and damp wood and the stale, sickly smell of smoke that clung to everything—your clothes, your hair, your throat. Even the water looked darker.
Men moved quietly, speaking in low voices or not at all. The adrenaline had burned out, leaving behind a brittle sort of stillness. Even the gulls circling overhead seemed wary, like they knew blood had been spilled.
Duwan sat on a crate near the edge of the shipyard, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Not from fear—not anymore—but from the realization of what he'd done. What he'd actually done.
His plan had changed the battle. A small skirmish, sure—but one that could have set off a cascade of disaster. The wrong decisions today could've meant British marines marching straight into the heart of Baltimore.
He had helped stop that.
A sixteen-year-old outsider with a borrowed name, standing in a century he didn't belong in.
Josiah plopped down beside him with a grunt. "Thought you'd gone catatonic for a second."
"I'm fine," Duwan lied.
"You look like you got hit by one of them cannons."
Duwan almost smiled. "I'll live."
Josiah pulled out a chunk of dry biscuit from his pocket and broke it in half. "Here. Food helps shock."
"It's not shock," Duwan said. "It's just… everything."
"Yeah," Josiah said. "That's shock."
They didn't get long to rest.
A corporal jogged over, breathless. "You two—Sergeant Reed wants you. Now."
Josiah shot Duwan a nervous look. "What did we do?"
"I don't know," Duwan said, but his stomach tightened. "Let's find out."
They followed the corporal toward a makeshift headquarters set up in one of the shipyard warehouses—a large building with half-finished hulls stacked like giant ribs. Officers milled about inside, arguing over maps or moving with frantic purpose.
Reed waited near the door, arms crossed.
"Here you are," Reed said. He motioned them inside. "Captain Loring wants a word."
Josiah stiffened. Duwan's heart dropped to his ankles.
"Are we in trouble?" Josiah whispered.
"Just go," Reed muttered. "And be honest."
The warehouse felt colder than outside. Loring stood near a long workbench littered with maps, spilled ink, and a lantern dripping soot. His uniform coat was half-unbuttoned, and his hair was still wild.
But his eyes—sharp and calculating—zeroed in on Duwan immediately.
"You," he said.
Duwan swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"Sergeant Reed tells me you provided tactical suggestions this morning."
"They weren't—" Duwan hesitated. "They weren't orders, sir. Just observations."
"Observations that saved my left flank," Loring said flatly.
Josiah let out a tiny squeak.
Loring paced a slow circle around them like a hawk deciding whether a mouse was worth the trouble.
"Explain," Loring said, "how a dockworker boy understands military maneuvers well enough to produce a functional choke-point strategy."
Duwan's mind raced. He couldn't tell the truth. He couldn't claim formal training. He had to lie—but in a way that stayed believable.
"My uncle," he said quietly. "He fought in the Revolution. He taught me things. How lines break. How rifles work in tight spaces. Stuff like that."
Loring studied him carefully. Duwan held his breath. One wrong expression could make him look suspicious—or worse, untrustworthy.
Finally Loring exhaled.
"You're either lying very well," he said, "or you're the luckiest amateur tactician I've ever met."
Duwan's voice was steady when he replied, "I don't lie about things that get people killed, sir."
That made Loring pause.
Not approve. But pause.
Loring gestured sharply. "Come here."
Duwan approached the table, stepping around coils of rope and sawdust piles.
Loring tapped a section of the map—the waterfront. "Show me exactly where you recommended placing the cannons."
Duwan pointed. "Here. On the ridge next to the timber stacks. It gives them a direct line across the predicted landing point. And when the marines push inland, they're forced into the alleys. A cannon blast down those lanes is devastating."
Loring considered this.
Then he pushed the inland map forward.
"British reinforcements will arrive tomorrow or the next day," Loring murmured. "If they come with a full detachment… we'll need more than quick thinking."
He gave Duwan a very long look.
"Draw the full defense you'd propose," Loring said.
Duwan blinked. "Sir?"
"Draw it," Loring repeated. "On the map. If your idea is truly worth a damn, I need to see it now."
Josiah mouthed silently, You're dead.
Duwan wasn't sure if he was being tested… or being dismissed.
But he stepped forward anyway and took up a charcoal stick.
His hands still trembled, but he forced them steady.
He drew lines. Marked alley choke points. Logging piles. Strong positions. Alternate fallback lines. And a final defensive line leading into the warehouse district—a kill zone the British couldn't easily escape.
Officers around the table gradually stopped talking and drifted closer to watch.
Loring watched every stroke.
When Duwan finished, the room was silent except for distant gull cries.
One officer snorted. "Captain, you're not seriously considering—"
"Be quiet," Loring snapped.
The officer fell silent.
Loring leaned over the map, tracing one of the routes Duwan had marked. His eyebrows lifted slightly. "This… could actually work."
"It will work," Reed said from the doorway. None of them had noticed he'd come in. "Sir."
Loring shot Reed a look. "You're convinced this boy is some kind of prodigy?"
Reed shrugged. "I think he sees the field differently than we do. And we need that."
Loring tapped the map again, hard.
"This isn't normal," he said to Duwan. "Men don't simply walk onto a battlefield and understand it."
"I just pay attention," Duwan said softly.
Loring stared at him for a long time.
Finally Loring straightened.
"You'll continue assisting Sergeant Reed," Loring said. "Unofficially."
Duwan blinked. "Unofficially?"
"Use your head," Loring murmured. "I can't have half the militia thinking I take orders from a colored boy. But I can use the ideas if Reed delivers them."
Reed cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yes, sir."
"That means," Loring continued, "you speak to no one else about your… insights. Not even other officers. If word spreads, it will cause problems. For you and for us."
Duwan nodded quickly. "Understood."
"Good." Loring turned sharply toward Reed. "Sergeant—work with him. Get every useful detail out of that head before tomorrow."
Then, to Duwan: "And boy—don't disappoint me again."
He didn't mean the insult.
He meant: don't let today be a fluke.
When they stepped into the sunlight again, Josiah let out a huge gust of air.
"Lord have mercy, Nathan," he whispered. "I thought he was gonna shoot you."
"He still might," Duwan muttered.
Reed gave Duwan a heavy look. Not pity. Not pride.
Something closer to… protective frustration.
"You did good in there," Reed said quietly. "But be careful. You're walking a knife's edge."
"I know."
"No," Reed said. "You don't. Men like Loring don't like being shown up. Especially not by someone who looks like you. So keep your head down. Let me handle the talking."
Duwan nodded.
Reed added, "But just between us—you've got something rare. And the Army… hell, the whole country… is starving for men who can actually think."
Coming from Reed, the words landed harder than any praise Duwan had gotten back home.
"Now," Reed said, "get back to camp. We've got planning to do."
That night, after the militia set up camp deeper inland, Duwan sat alone near a stack of firewood. The sky was streaked with red and purple, the sun sinking behind the city.
He finally let the fear in.
Not panic—just the heavy, aching fear of a kid in way over his head. The kind that settles in your bones when you realize how fragile you actually are.
Josiah came by and dropped a blanket at his side. "You're thinking too loud," he said.
"Hard not to."
"Reed believes in you. Even Captain Loring is half-scared of you. That's gotta mean something."
Duwan exhaled shakily. "Yeah. It does."
But Loring's warning echoed in his mind:
Men don't simply walk onto a battlefield and understand it.
He wasn't normal.
Not to them.
And sooner or later, someone else would notice.
Someone less reasonable than Reed or Loring.
He looked out over the flickering campfires, hundreds of militia men preparing themselves for a fight they didn't fully understand.
Tomorrow, the British would come back for real.
And every decision he made from now on could change the future.
Or end his life.
Either way… there was no turning back.