DJ followed General Smith into the large stone house serving as temporary headquarters. Inside, officers crowded around a table covered in maps of Baltimore, its harbor, and Fort McHenry. Lanterns cast harsh yellow light over tired faces. Men spoke in clipped voices, moving pieces across the map to simulate advancing troops and naval positions.
Smith gestured DJ toward the table. "Stand here. Listen first."
DJ stayed quiet. Officers barely acknowledged him, though a few eyed him with confusion.
Colonel Armistead, commander of Fort McHenry, pointed to the mouth of the Patapsco River. "Admiral Cochrane's fleet is regrouping. They'll attempt to take the harbor as soon as their ground forces pin our army."
Another officer added, "If the fort falls, Baltimore's finished."
Smith tapped the map with a knuckle. "Our lines will hold as long as possible. Their infantry advance was delayed, but not stopped. We expect a second push soon. Armistead, prepare for naval bombardment."
Armistead nodded. "Already moving guns into final positions."
A captain spoke up. "General, what about the counter-assault? Who planned the timing?"
Smith didn't hesitate. "Carter here did."
Several officers exchanged looks—some impressed, some skeptical.
Colonel Brooke's adjutant leaned forward. "You allowed a runner to influence tactical deployment?"
Smith didn't answer him directly. "I use information that works. His timing disrupted the British formation."
The adjutant let out a faint, irritated breath but said nothing more.
Smith looked at DJ. "What do you see when you look at this?"
He pointed to the map of the city's eastern defenses.
DJ studied it. "The British infantry will regroup by noon. Their new commander will try a frontal probe first, not a flanking attempt. They're still unsure how strong your center is."
"And why do you believe that?" asked one of the officers.
"Because their right flank is marshy. Their left is blocked by the tree line we fortified last night. The center is the only reliable approach."
Smith nodded slowly. "Armistead, expect land pressure on your right and naval fire simultaneously. Coordinate with the harbor batteries."
Another officer cleared his throat. "If their land forces break through, the fort will be hit from both sides."
Armistead replied, "That's the job."
The council went on for nearly an hour, adjusting positions, preparing fallback points, and discussing powder reserves. DJ stayed quiet unless Smith asked him something directly. He didn't volunteer anything. He listened.
Eventually, Smith turned to him again. "Carter, you'll accompany the signal corps to Hampstead Hill. Relay visual updates between our line and the fort. If the British shift direction or attempt a flanking surge, I want to know immediately."
DJ nodded. "Yes, sir."
A lieutenant scoffed softly. "We're trusting a boy with signal coordination now."
Smith looked at him. "We're trusting someone who brought correct information twice in twenty-four hours."
The lieutenant looked away and said nothing further.
Smith dismissed the officers. DJ and two signal corps runners moved toward the high ground overlooking the harbor. The hill was crowded with militia stacking earthworks, dragging cannons, and laying down barrels of water for fires. Smoke from campfires drifted over the trenches.
As DJ passed, some militia stared at him. A few nodded respectfully, likely having heard rumors. Others muttered under their breath.
One man said loudly to his friend, "Funny how the general's trusting anyone these days."
Another added, "Maybe we should all pretend we're geniuses now."
DJ ignored it and kept walking.
At the crest of the hill, signal flags were stacked beside a tripod. The officer in charge, Lieutenant Merrick, looked DJ over.
"You the one Smith sent?"
"Yes."
"He says you understand the British movements."
"I understand the terrain well enough."
Merrick didn't seem convinced, but he handed DJ a spyglass. "Watch the tree line and the marsh. When they move, we flag Fort McHenry."
DJ surveyed the harbor. The British fleet sat in the distance—dozens of ships forming a dark, jagged line across the water. Naval longboats moved between them.
"They're preparing bombardment," Merrick said. "They'll begin once their infantry ties us up."
DJ watched the infantry positions instead. British redcoats reorganized their lines near the marsh. Officers moved back and forth. Ammunition wagons rolled forward.
"They're almost ready," DJ said.
Around midday, the British infantry started forward again.
DJ raised the spyglass. "Column formation. Three ranks deep. They're hitting the center like we expected."
Merrick started waving the signal flags. Another runner relayed the message down the hill.
Minutes later, artillery boomed from the American line. The ground shook.
DJ saw the British shift suddenly. "New movement—light infantry peeling left. They're testing the tree line."
Merrick signaled again.
American riflemen fired from the woods a moment later, slowing the British flanking test.
DJ continued to track every shift, calling out distances, formations, and pressure points. His voice stayed calm. Merrick adjusted signals quickly, sweat beading on his forehead.
At one point, a militia gun crew ran up the hill, asking where to reposition. DJ pointed them toward the left ridge. "They're massing there. If you fire from the hilltop, you'll hit their second rank."
They followed without argument.
The land battle lasted more than an hour. The British never broke through, though they pressed hard enough to keep the defenders strained.
Eventually, the British infantry pulled back to reorganize again.
Merrick lowered his flags. "That's it for now."
DJ nodded but kept watching the harbor.
More longboats were moving.
Ships were adjusting anchor positions.
Gunners were preparing.
"Fort McHenry is next," DJ said.
A thunderous boom rolled across the water.
One of the British bomb ships had fired the first mortar shell. The flaming projectile arced high into the sky and came down near the fort's walls, exploding with a deep, echoing thud.
Merrick stiffened. "Signal Armistead?"
"Do it," DJ said.
More shells followed. The air shook with each impact. The fort returned fire with its own guns.
The bombardment had begun.
Militia along Hampstead Hill watched silently, all movement halted. Everyone listened to the distant rumble of cannon fire.
Smoke drifted upward from the fort and from the water where shells splashed.
DJ lowered the spyglass for a moment. He didn't speak. He didn't pose. He didn't react outwardly.
He simply continued watching the sky and the ships, preparing to signal Smith the moment the British fleet adjusted its formation or attempted to close in.
The officers around him—Smith's staff, Merrick, the runners—treated him like someone expected to deliver hard information, not speeches.
And he stayed there until sundown, tracking every movement above Fort McHenry as the sky flashed orange and white.