Night sealed itself over Baltimore long before the sun finished setting.
Clouds smothered the moon, turning the world into a mass of shadows and silhouettes. Torches smoked along the trenches, their flickering light making every face look drawn, scared, and much older.
Duwan awoke to a boot nudging his ribs.
Sergeant Reed's voice was low, grim.
"They've landed."
Duwan sat up instantly, heart hammering so hard he felt it in his fingertips. "Where?"
"North Point."
Exactly where history said they would.
Reed handed him his musket. "Move. The entire eastern line is forming up. We march now."
Josiah was already up, tightening his belt with trembling hands. "I thought… I thought we'd have till sunrise."
"No," Reed said. "The British don't sleep when they want something."
They fell into the stream of militia funneling down the slope, thousands of boots crunching gravel, packs clattering, officers shouting to form ranks. The city behind them glowed with lanterns and fear.
Baltimore knew what tonight meant.
If the militia broke, the British would walk straight into the city and burn it like they burned Washington.
Tonight wasn't about pride.
Tonight wasn't about politics.
Tonight was survival.
The column moved fast, almost too fast for the muddy, uneven ground. Duwan nearly tripped twice, but Reed kept a hand clamped on his shoulder.
"Stay close," the sergeant muttered. "You don't want to get lost out here."
The road to the North Point peninsula bent through marshes and thick patches of underbrush. Every sound—the splash of boots in puddles, the creak of wagon wheels, the distant cry of a night bird—felt unnaturally loud.
Fear magnified everything.
Every shadow looked like a British soldier.
Every rustle felt like a musket being cocked.
Josiah leaned close. "You think they'll attack in the dark?"
"No," Duwan whispered back. "They'll advance at dawn. But we'll hear their scouts long before that."
Reed shot him a curious look, but said nothing.
The truth was, Duwan remembered exactly how North Point happened.
A massive British landing.
A march inland.
A clash with American militia meant to buy time for Baltimore's defenses.
And somewhere in the chaos…
The British commander, General Robert Ross, would be killed.
A moment that would shift the battle.
A moment no one here knew was coming.
Except Duwan.
They had just reached a stretch of road where dense woods pressed in on both sides when the first shot cracked through the night.
Every man in the column froze.
Another shot. Then three more.
Musket fire—close.
Captain Loring galloped up to Reed's company. "Forward! Skirmishers are engaging British scouts. Form the line!"
"Form line!" Reed shouted.
Duwan's breath hitched. This was it. His first real field engagement. Not a sudden brawl. Not a frantic dock fight.
A battle.
A true battle.
Men spread out across the road and into the shallow ditch beside it. Duwan crouched low, musket ready, trying to steady the tremor in his arms.
Shapes moved ahead—shadows flickering between tree trunks.
Another gunshot flashed like lightning in the dark.
The sound of a man screaming followed.
Josiah whispered, "Are those ours or theirs?"
"They're scouts," Duwan said. "Probably both."
Reed lifted his musket, eyes fixed ahead. "Hold fire—HOLD—"
Three British marines burst from the trees, bayonets fixed, red coats ghostly in the torchlight.
"FIRE!" Reed bellowed.
The militia unleashed a thunderous volley.
Smoke swallowed the road. The flash blinded Duwan for a heartbeat. When it cleared, the three British soldiers were down, the closest one lying mere feet away, blood spreading across his chest in slow, horrifying rhythm.
Duwan swallowed hard.
He'd never seen death this close.
Reed didn't give him time to think.
"Forward! Take the position!"
They advanced into the trees, stepping over roots, mud, and bodies. The musket in Duwan's hands felt heavier by the second, but he kept moving.
Because he wasn't just fighting for his own survival.
He was fighting to make sure history didn't go worse than he remembered.
By the time they reached the edge of the woods, the eastern militia wing had formed a full defensive line across the peninsula—hundreds of men deep, stretching from the marshes on one side to thick underbrush on the other.
British troops were advancing in disciplined ranks, drums thudding a slow, relentless rhythm. The sound carried across the field like a heartbeat.
Then the fog lifted just enough for Duwan to really see them:
Red coats in perfect formation.
Tall shakos.
Gleaming bayonets.
And behind them—more lines forming up.
An army.
Not a raiding party.
Not a patrol.
An invasion force.
Josiah whispered, "There's so many…"
Reed answered quietly, "They're the finest army on earth. But they bleed like anyone else."
Cannon fire erupted from the American right flank, shaking the ground. The British line staggered but kept advancing.
Drums beat louder.
The air felt heavy, thick, impossible to breathe.
Duwan's pulse thundered.
His palms were slick with sweat.
His whole body shook.
And yet—
His mind was calm.
He could see the battlefield clearly.
The ground.
The angles.
The gaps.
The militia line was about to fold on its left side.
He stepped forward. "Sergeant Reed—tell Captain Loring to rotate the third platoon left, anchor them by the split-tree stump. That low ground will be their blind spot—if the British hit it, they'll collapse our flank."
Reed blinked at him.
Then looked at the field.
Then at the advancing British.
"Damn," he muttered. "He's right."
He grabbed a runner. "Go! NOW!"
Within minutes, the platoon shifted—just in time for a British surge to slam into the very spot Duwan predicted.
The militia held.
Barely.
But they held.
Word spread fast down the line.
"Some kid saw it coming—"
"Reed's boy knew the ground better than the officers—"
"That's why the flank didn't break—"
Reed glanced at Duwan.
Not skeptical.
Not confused.
Respectful.
"You keep that up," he said, "and you'll be running this whole line before sunrise."
The British surge slowed. The fighting shifted direction—north, toward a cluster of trees where musket fire erupted in tight volleys.
Suddenly, shouts broke out among British ranks.
Something big had happened.
Reed squinted. "What in God's name—?"
Duwan knew.
This was it.
The moment etched in every history book.
General Robert Ross, the British commander who burned Washington, had just ridden too close to the skirmish line—and been shot from his saddle.
The British began to hesitate. Confusion spread through their ranks like cracks through ice.
Josiah whispered, "What's happening?"
Duwan answered quietly, "Their commander's down."
That changed everything.
History was unfolding exactly as it should—
But now Duwan was standing inside it.
Reed stared at Duwan, startled. "How in blazes do you know that?"
Before Duwan could answer, a horn sounded from the American right:
"ADVANCE! PUSH THEM BACK!"
The militia surged forward.
Not in perfect lines, not with professional discipline—but with raw desperation and sudden, incredible hope.
Duwan went with them.
The smoke closed around him like fog.
Gunfire flashed inches from his face.
The heat, the screams, the powder stench—everything was overwhelming.
But he stayed on his feet.
He reloaded.
He fired.
He moved with the line, staying close to Reed, ducking when Josiah yanked him down, pushing forward when the tide shifted.
And somewhere in that chaos, in that swirling mass of smoke and fear and courage—
The British didn't break. They never broke.
But they did fall back—grudgingly, angrily, firing as they withdrew toward their main body. The militia stopped advancing and began digging in again, preparing for the next push.
Reed wiped his brow with a trembling hand. "We bought the city time."
Captain Loring rode up, face streaked with smoke. His eyes landed on Duwan.
"You," he said, voice rough. "General Smith wants a courier. Someone who saw the field and can explain it. You're with me."
Duwan blinked. "Sir—what?"
"You're going back to the Baltimore line. Now. Smith needs to know the British commander is dead, and their advance is slowed. Move!"
Josiah grabbed Duwan's sleeve. "Bro—be careful."
Reed extended his hand.
A firm, soldier's clasp.
"You did good, son."
Duwan swallowed hard.
"Thank you, sir."
Then he ran.
Past the wounded.
Past the broken trees.
Past the smoke drifting over the field like ghosts.
Toward Baltimore.
Toward General Smith.
Toward the center of a battle that was only just beginning.
Because this wasn't the end.
This was the opening act.
Fort McHenry still had to face the night-long bombardment that would shake the world.