DJ didn't sleep.
He tried. He lay down on a pile of canvas near the command tent, staring at the trembling lantern light on the canvas ceiling, heart still thudding from the run, the insults, the meeting with Smith.
But every time he closed his eyes, he saw the British line advancing through the smoke again.
He smelled the gunpowder.
He heard the screams.
So he got up.
The Baltimore entrenchment sprawled before him—thousands of militia and regulars forming up in rough camps, officers arguing, pickets pacing with stiff shoulders and white knuckles. Somewhere in the distance, wounded men cried out, surgeons barked orders, men prayed under their breath.
War didn't sleep either.
DJ wrapped his coat tighter as wind swept over the ridge. Beyond the trenches, down the slope, the marshlands opened into a long approach the British would have to cross.
He crouched and looked at it the way he used to study strategy games, diagrams, and documentaries—searching for patterns, weaknesses, timing.
And something clicked.
A shape.
A moment.
A flaw in the British advance they would probably repeat at dawn.
He didn't know how long he stared before he heard a voice behind him.
"You think like a soldier."
DJ turned.
General Smith himself stood there, cloak wrapped around his shoulders, silver hair whipping in the wind. No guards. No aides. Just a tired commander watching the boy he'd unexpectedly decided to trust.
DJ straightened instantly. "Sir."
Smith stepped beside him, following his gaze into the misty low ground.
"You're looking at the approach routes."
"Yes, sir."
"And what do you see?"
DJ hesitated only a moment. "They're going to form columns again when they advance. It's what they did at North Point."
"They always do," Smith said. "British doctrine."
"That's why we can hit them."
The words spilled out faster now, building confidence with each breath.
"They'll push straight up the center, trying to drive a wedge. But the marsh to their right slows them, and the woods to their left force them to squeeze narrower. It bottlenecks them right here—"
DJ pointed at a rise just short of the American line.
Smith's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Continue."
"If you let them reach this rise uncontested, we'll lose ground fast. But if we hit them before they crest it—just as they compress—it'll throw their advance into confusion."
Smith folded his arms. "You're suggesting a forward counter-assault."
DJ nodded. "A short, sharp one. Not to break them—just to shove them back down the slope and buy us time. And scare them. The shock matters."
"And how would you organize it?"
DJ pointed at two militia companies posted nearby, resting in reserve.
"Take Cooper's men and Dorsett's rifle company. Put the rifles along the ditch in the woods. Let them fire into the British left when the column narrows."
Smith listened without interrupting, which made DJ more nervous than if he'd argued.
"Then," DJ continued, "send Cooper's men forward in a quick push. Not a full charge. Just a thirty-yard rush to hit the front ranks, fire a volley up close, and fall back before they're swallowed."
Smith raised an eyebrow. "Risky."
"It'll work," DJ said quietly. "Because the British won't expect militia to attack. Especially not before dawn."
Smith studied him for a long moment.
A very long moment.
"You're certain," he finally said, "that this counterstroke will buy us meaningful time?"
DJ nodded. "Yes, sir."
"And that you can guide these men to strike at precisely the right moment?"
DJ swallowed. "If you assign me to Cooper's company… yes, sir."
Smith exhaled slowly. It wasn't anger. It was calculation.
"So be it."
DJ froze. "Sir…?"
Smith's voice was firm, final:
"You will accompany Captain Cooper, position the riflemen, and signal the moment of advance. Your timing will decide the success of this assault."
DJ felt his heart slam into his ribs. "I won't fail you, sir."
Smith placed a hand on his shoulder—unexpected, steady, grounding.
"You've already done more tonight than many men do in a month of battle. Do it again."
Captain Elias Cooper was a hard-faced veteran with a permanent scowl and a voice like gravel. He looked DJ over when he arrived and said:
"This the boy Smith's sending with us?"
"Yes, sir," DJ said, trying to sound braver than he felt.
Cooper snorted. "Hell. If the general trusts you, I'll trust you. But if your timing's off by a heartbeat, half my company dies. Understood?"
DJ nodded. "I understand."
Nearby, Dorsett's riflemen cleaned their long rifles with calm, practiced motions. Unlike most militia, riflemen were marksmen—hunters, backwoodsmen, quiet men who shot first and talked second.
One of them, a wiry man with a beard like tangled brush, approached DJ.
"You're the one who saw the British flank at North Point," he said.
"Yes."
"Hmph." He spat into the dirt. "Hope you're right again."
DJ didn't blame him.
Men trusted experience—not teenagers.
And especially not teenagers who looked like him.
But they followed when he guided them toward the dark treeline on the left.
They crouched where he told them.
They waited in the cold, fog rolling in low and thick.
Cooper's men formed behind the rise, muskets fixed with bayonets, boots sinking in damp earth.
The tension was so sharp it felt like the air vibrated.
Then—
Faint at first—
the steady thudding of drums floated across the marsh.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
An inhuman, mechanical heartbeat.
Men stiffened.
Cooper tightened his jaw.
Dorsett's riflemen leaned lower, rifles resting on knees.
The columns appeared moments later.
Red coats materializing from the mist like ghosts.
Ranks perfect.
Bayonets glinting.
Officers shouting in clipped British tones.
DJ's breath caught.
Even knowing what history said about this moment didn't make it easier to see.
Cooper whispered, "Wait…"
The British stepped into the bottleneck.
Just as DJ expected.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Pressed too close.
Movement restricted.
DJ lifted his hand slowly.
The moment was now.
"Fire," he whispered.
Dorsett's riflemen squeezed their triggers.
The volley cracked like a lightning strike, shattering the still morning air. Three British officers dropped instantly. Confusion rippled through the column.
The British ranks faltered.
DJ didn't wait.
He turned to Cooper's company, heart in his throat.
"NOW! GO!"
Cooper bellowed the order:
"FORWARD! PUSH!"
A hundred militia surged over the rise, yelling as they ran—firing at thirty yards, just as DJ planned.
The shot tore into the British front line at point-blank range.
Smoke exploded everywhere.
Men shouted.
Commands clashed.
British soldiers scrambled to re-form.
Cooper's men didn't linger—they punched the British formation, then fell back exactly as DJ had instructed.
Not a rout.
Not disorganized.
A controlled retreat.
British advance momentum snapped like a rope pulled too tight.
As Cooper's men scrambled behind the rise again, DJ counted casualties. Fewer than expected. The rifles had done the damage up front.
The British delayed.
They hesitated.
They took nearly forty minutes to re-form their advance.
Forty minutes in wartime was a lifetime.
Smith himself soon rode up the line, officers surrounding him.
He spotted DJ almost immediately.
"Report," he demanded.
DJ pointed to the marsh. "Their front rank is reorganizing slower than expected. They lost officers. They're shaken. They'll advance again, but not with the same cohesion."
Smith nodded once—sharp, decisive. "Your counterstroke bought us more than time. You changed the rhythm of their assault."
He looked at Cooper. "Your men executed well."
Cooper jerked his chin toward DJ. "Boy told us when to strike."
Smith's expression hardened into something approaching pride.
"We'll hold this line until they bring up their artillery. And when they do, Fort McHenry must be ready."
He looked at DJ again.
"Walk with me, Carter. I want you at the map table when we plan the next move."
DJ blinked. "Sir?"
"You've earned the place."
Cooper clapped him on the shoulder—rough, but sincere.
"Not bad, boy," the captain said. "Not bad at all."
Josiah found him seconds later, breathless, eyes wide. "Dude—you really did that? Everyone's talking about it!"
DJ breathed out slowly, finally letting himself feel the shaking in his hands.