By the next morning, Baltimore was no longer a city.
It was a fortress.
Word spread like wildfire through the docks, the taverns, the shipyards, even through the narrow alleys where washerwomen gossiped and children played: the British fleet—the same fleet that had burned Washington to the ground—was advancing up the Chesapeake.
You could feel it in the air.
The dread.
The urgency.
The sense that history itself was leaning forward to watch.
Church bells began ringing just after sunrise. Their desperate clangs echoed over the roofs and wharves, bouncing off warehouses like distant war drums.
Men rushed into the streets, grabbing muskets, cartridge boxes, anything that looked like a weapon. Women packed belongings, children cried, carts jammed the roads leaving the city.
Baltimore's militia companies assembled in full force—thousands of them this time, not the ragged handful Duwan had fought alongside the day before.
Duwan and Josiah were swept into the thick of it.
Sergeant Reed marched them toward Hampstead Hill—soon to be the center of the city's defense. The rising ground overlooked the eastern approach into Baltimore, and the U.S. Army had selected it as the main defensive line.
Now, hundreds of men were digging trenches, throwing up earthworks, positioning cannon batteries, reinforcing barricades with anything they could find—timber, old barrels, broken wagons.
It looked like an anthill kicked open by a giant.
Reed handed Duwan a shovel. "Start digging. Both of you. And stay near me."
Duwan plunged the shovel into the dirt, his heart pounding harder than his arms could move. This wasn't a skirmish. This wasn't a quick clash on a dock.
This was the battle.
The moment he'd studied.
The moment he'd never imagined he'd stand inside.
The Battle of Baltimore.
Around midmorning, a rider approached the hill, followed by aides, officers, and standard bearers. The entire militia line straightened instantly.
General Samuel Smith—Baltimore's commanding officer—rode up the slope on a tall bay horse. He was older than Duwan expected, hair silvering, uniform immaculate, but his presence radiated a stern, unshakable confidence. The kind that made frightened men straighten their spines.
Smith surveyed the defensive line with sharp eyes.
Then he turned to Captain Loring, who had scrambled over to greet him.
"Report," Smith commanded.
Loring saluted. "British fleet moving north. Estimates range from forty to fifty ships, sir."
Smith's jaw flexed. "Then they mean to force a landing."
"Yes, sir."
Smith scanned the trenches, then the cannons, then the maze of half-finished barricades.
"This hill is where Baltimore lives or dies," he said loudly, his voice carrying over the earthworks. "If they crack us here, the city falls. If we hold, they fail."
Men nodded grimly. Others swallowed hard. All listened.
Especially Duwan.
Because this was exactly how history described him: the man who turned Baltimore into an impenetrable wall.
But that wall wasn't finished.
Yet.
General Smith dismounted and moved to the map table that officers had set up on a plank balanced between barrels. Duwan recognized the layout—it was roughly the same map he had sketched his strategy onto for Loring.
Captain Loring approached Reed first, speaking in a low, harsh whisper. "Where is the boy?"
Reed looked at Duwan and jerked his head. "Here."
"Bring him," Loring ordered.
Josiah's eyes widened. "Oh no. What now?"
Duwan felt cold all over, but he followed Reed toward the general.
When Duwan reached the map table, General Smith didn't look up. He was studying the same coastline, the same warehouses, the same streets Duwan had memorized.
Loring cleared his throat. "Sir. I have… a recommendation to make."
"Speak," Smith said.
"Some of the defensive placements may be strengthened if we consider alternate firing lines." Loring hesitated. "I have a… source. Someone with a talent for ground analysis."
Smith finally looked up.
His gaze landed on Duwan.
A Black teenager in a simple shirt, muddy from digging, still holding a shovel.
"Is this some sort of jest, Captain?" Smith asked sharply.
Loring stiffened. "No, sir. He provided valuable insight during yesterday's engagement on the docks."
Smith raised an eyebrow. "A boy?"
Reed spoke up quietly but firmly. "Sir, he kept the left flank from collapsing entirely."
Smith studied Duwan again.
Not kindly. Not cruelly.
Just… assessing.
"Step forward, son."
Duwan stepped up to the map table.
Smith pointed at the eastern coastline. "Explain to me—how did you propose we control the dockside approach?"
Duwan inhaled slowly.
Thought of Reed's advice.
Thought of the line between caution and truth.
Thought of the hundreds of lives depending on this battle.
Then he spoke.
"Sir… the British will land in waves. Their officers prefer wide formations, but the timber yards force them into narrow channels. If artillery moves to the top of the slope here—" He pointed. "—it gives overlapping fire on the landing zone. And if infantry falls back into the alleys, we can funnel them into the kill box."
The surrounding officers frowned.
But Smith didn't.
He leaned closer.
"Show me."
Duwan took the charcoal stick from the table and began sketching. Not like a trained officer. More like a kid drawing on homework. But the lines were confident. The angles precise. The elevations correct.
When he finished, the map showed a reorganized defense that would strengthen the Baltimore line by nearly doubling its choke points.
General Smith stared for a long moment.
Finally he said, "Captain Loring."
"Yes, sir?"
"Implement this."
Officers around them exploded into protest.
"Sir—"
"This is highly irregular—"
"We can't take orders from a child—"
"From—"
Smith slammed his fist on the table.
"Silence."
The room froze.
"This boy just outlined a better defensive line than half the staff in Washington," Smith said. "And I will not let pride cost us this city. Use his plan."
He turned to Duwan.
"What is your name, son?"
Duwan's throat tightened.
"Nathan Johnson, sir."
Smith nodded once. "Nathan—Baltimore may owe you more than you realize."
Then he mounted his horse and rode off, bellowing orders.
As soon as Smith was out of hearing, the officers started whispering. Not loudly enough for Smith to hear, but just loud enough for Duwan.
"A colored boy? Absurd."
"Dangerous precedent."
"Does Reed control him?"
"Or is someone else behind this?"
"Could be a spy."
Reed stepped between them and Duwan like a shield. "Enough."
But their looks said everything.
Racism.
Suspicion.
Fear.
And something else:
Resentment.
Duwan had just impressed the top commander in Baltimore—and many officers hated that.
He wasn't supposed to have a voice here.
But now he did.
By late afternoon, the British fleet drew near enough that the masts became visible from the hill.
Black lines against a gray horizon.
Dozens of them.
A forest of death sailing straight toward Baltimore.
The militia fell silent.
Even the bravest swallowed hard.
Duwan felt his stomach twist. He'd known this moment was coming—history told him exactly when it would happen.
But standing there…
Watching those ships…
Knowing what they could do…
It didn't feel like history anymore.
It felt like judgment.
Josiah whispered, "Nathan… this is it, isn't it?"
Duwan clenched his shaking hands.
"Yeah."
This was it.
The British weren't coming for a skirmish.
They were coming to crush Baltimore—and march straight into the heart of America with it.
The battle wasn't days away.
It wasn't tomorrow.
It was now.
And somewhere out in the harbor, the guns of the Royal Navy were being loaded—guns that would soon pound Fort McHenry for 25 relentless hours.
Guns that historians would one day write entire books about.
The guns that would inspire the national anthem.
The sky darkened.
The wind picked up.
The British sails unfurled like giant white wings ready to smother the city.