The night after the fighting at North Point tasted like iron and smoke. The air still trembled with the echo of musket volleys. Duwan ran along the muddy road back toward Baltimore, boots slipping, lungs burning.
Captain Loring's last words rang in his head:
"General Smith needs someone who saw the field. Go."
No escort.
No horse.
No time.
Just the knowledge that somewhere behind him, thousands of British soldiers were regrouping under new command.
He pressed a hand to his coat pocket—where Reed had tucked his battlefield sketch earlier. Not a real officer's map. Just a scribbled diagram of terrain, formations, and movements.
But tonight, it mattered.
Tonight, it might save a city.
By the time he reached the outskirts of Baltimore's entrenchments, the sun was still hours from rising. The darkness was thick, broken only by lanterns at the gate and the silhouettes of weary, tense sentries.
"HALT!"
A musket leveled at him instantly.
Duwan froze, hands raised. "Courier from North Point! I need to speak with General Smith!"
A second guard approached—older, heavier set, face twisted in mistrust. His accent was thick Pennsylvania Dutch. "You? A courier? You barely look like you belong here."
"I'm attached to Sergeant Reed's line," Duwan said. "Captain Loring sent me."
The older guard's lip curled. "Funny. Captain Loring usually sends soldiers."
The other guard muttered uncomfortably, "Jacob—come on—he said 'courier,' let him through."
But Jacob wasn't done.
He stepped closer, squinting at Duwan as though looking for something to justify his anger.
"You people always trying to sneak somewhere you don't belong," he said softly. "General Smith doesn't have time for dock rats pretending to be military."
Duwan felt the cold pressure of fury under his ribs—but he forced his jaw to unclench.
"I have information from the field," he said steadily. "You'll be held responsible if it arrives late."
Jacob grabbed his collar. "Is that a threat, boy?"
Before Duwan could answer, the younger guard shoved Jacob back.
"Enough. Captain Loring's name is good enough for me."
Jacob spat on the ground. "If he embarrasses this line, that'll be your responsibility."
Duwan moved past them without another word, though every muscle in his body was tight with the restraint he wished he didn't need.
The Baltimore defense lines were alive with motion.
Militia companies lined up for weapon checks. Civilians carried buckets of water and barrels of powder. Officers shouted orders too quickly to follow, their tempers frayed by hours without sleep.
A few men stared openly at Duwan as he passed.
Some watched with disapproval—
Others with confusion—as though a sixteen-year-old Black courier didn't fit any world they understood.
A pair of militiamen in muddy coats stepped into his path.
"Where do you think you're going?" one demanded. His voice was thick with southern drawl.
"To General Smith," Duwan said.
The other smirked. "Sure you are. And I'm the King of France."
"I was sent—"
"By who?"
Their tone made it clear what they expected the answer to be.
"Captain Loring."
That threw them both off for a beat—but not long enough.
The tall one stepped closer. "You trying to tell us a captain would send you? For a battlefield report?"
"Move," Duwan said, trying to push past them.
A hand shoved him back hard. "Watch yourself, boy."
Duwan clenched his teeth. He wanted to say something—wanted to let the future roar through him. But he couldn't. Not here. Not now.
He forced his breathing slow.
"General Smith's headquarters is that way, right?" he asked.
The tall one grinned cruelly. "Maybe. But you don't get to walk up to him like you're somebody."
"I'm delivering a report," Duwan said. "That's all."
"Then let a real soldier take it."
A hand snatched at his coat, trying to grab the folded map.
Duwan twisted away. "Don't touch me!"
A few nearby militiamen turned at the raised voices—but didn't intervene. Some looked annoyed. Some amused. None stepped forward.
The tall man shoved him again—but this time, Duwan braced and didn't fall.
"Persistent little thing," the man sneered. "Think bein' useful tonight makes you equal?"
Duwan's jaw tightened. "No. It just makes me necessary."
For a moment, the man's expression twisted—caught between anger and the sting of truth.
But before anything else could happen, a mounted officer trotted past and snapped:
"You three! Clear the way!"
The militiamen stiffened instantly. The officer barely spared them a glance—but his interruption was enough.
They backed off.
Duwan slipped past them quickly, holding the paper tight against his chest.
The command tent was lit from within by lanterns, shadows of officers moving around like frantic ghosts. Two guards stood outside—actual soldiers, not militia.
One blocked his path. "State your business."
"Courier," Duwan said, breathless. "From Captain Loring. Urgent information from the North Point line."
The guard looked skeptical until Duwan pulled out Reed's folded paper.
Then the guard went rigid.
"Follow me."
He ushered Duwan inside.
The tent smelled of ink, sweat, damp wool, and stress. General Samuel Smith stood hunched over a large map table, gray hair tied behind his head, spectacles perched low on his nose. His uniform was wrinkled, and he looked like he hadn't sat down in ten hours.
He didn't look up as he said, "What is it? Quickly."
Duwan stepped forward.
"General Smith, sir. British landed at North Point. Heavy engagement with militia skirmishers. Their commander, General Ross—he's been shot."
The tent went still.
One officer whispered sharply, "Ross? You're certain?"
"Yes, sir," Duwan said. "I saw the aftermath myself. The British formation hesitated before pulling back to reorganize."
General Smith slowly lifted his head.
His eyes were sharp—tired, but sharp.
"You were close enough to observe their reaction firsthand?"
"Yes, sir."
Smith stepped closer. "Your name, son?"
"Nathaniel Carter, attached to Sergeant Reed's company."
Smith's gaze flicked to the paper in Duwan's hand.
"What is that?"
"A sketch of their approach routes and where the militia held them."
Smith unfolded it.
For several long seconds, no one in the tent moved.
Smith studied every line, every angle, every hastily written note. His brow knit. He finally spoke:
"Who drew this?"
"I did, sir."
A few officers exchanged skeptical glances—one even scoffed softly—but Smith silenced them with a glare.
"You placed their flank movements here?" Smith tapped the map.
"Yes, sir. They pushed hardest on the left. Aimed for the low ground near the stump. That's where they tried to break us."
"And you recommended shifting the platoon that held it."
"Yes."
Smith looked at him fully now—really looked.
Not like a servant.
Not like a nuisance.
Not like a child.
But like a mind.
A soldier.
"You think quickly," he said. "And you understand terrain better than many men twice your age."
Duwan swallowed. "Thank you, sir."
Smith folded the map carefully. "Baltimore needs every capable mind we have tonight. You'll stay attached to my staff as a runner and observer. When the next engagement begins, I want you close."
Duwan blinked. "Sir… me?"
"Yes."
Smith's voice was firm. "We have no luxury to waste talent, no matter where it comes from."
The officers exchanged surprised looks—but none dared argue.
Smith pointed toward the tent flap.
"Get food and water. Then rest here. The British will advance again by morning. When they do… I'll need your eyes."
Duwan stepped back, nearly trembling.
"Yes, sir."
As he exited the tent, one of the officers muttered under his breath:
"Lord help us—Smith is trusting a boy…"
Another added, "And a colored one at that…"
But Smith's voice snapped behind them, sharp and cold:
"He's the only one who brought me information that matters. You'd do well to learn from him."
The entire tent went silent.
Duwan stepped out into the dark, chest tight.
He'd been insulted, shoved, dismissed—
But he'd been heard.
By the one man who mattered.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow the British would assault the city itself.