The first hour of the bombardment hit like a continuous storm.
Each mortar shell rose into the sky as a bright speck of fire drifting over the water, hanging for a moment before plunging down toward Fort McHenry.
DJ watched through the spyglass from the top of Hampstead Hill, tracking each explosion, each shift in British range. Smoke drifted across the harbor, thinning the late-afternoon light. The ground trembled from distant impacts.
Lieutenant Merrick kept the signal flags ready. Runners waited behind him, tense and silent.
"Another ship's adjusting," DJ said, adjusting focus on the glass. "Two bomb ships moving ten degrees east. They're correcting range."
Merrick signaled immediately.
Down by the harbor, American signalmen repeated the movements, relaying the warning to Fort McHenry. The fort's cannons fired a moment later, splashing water dangerously close to the repositioning British vessels.
"That's a hit," Merrick muttered.
"Not enough to stop them," DJ said.
Around them, militia units rotated through rest shifts. Some sat against barrels, chewing hard bread or drinking water; others dug fresh trenches or stacked more earth along the hill.
A group of four militia men carrying tools walked past DJ and Merrick. One of them slowed as he passed DJ.
"That the boy who thinks he knows everything?" the man said, not quietly.
Another replied, "General must be real desperate."
The third added, "Watch, he'll take credit when the fort holds."
DJ didn't look at them. He kept his eyes on the spyglass.
Merrick exhaled through his nose. "Ignore them. Half these men haven't slept. Folk say stupid things when they're tired."
DJ nodded but didn't respond.
The bombardment intensified. More shells flew. Some burst prematurely in the air. Others slammed into the fort's walls, kicking up stones and sending flashes of sparks skyward.
Near sundown, the British fleet changed direction. Bomb ships to the west pulled back while those in the center drifted closer.
"Movement," DJ said. "Three ships advancing. They're trying to get into deeper range."
Merrick signaled.
But the ships didn't stop.
DJ frowned into the glass. "Something else… They're lowering longboats."
Merrick stiffened. "Landing party?"
"Not yet," DJ said. "But they're preparing one."
He watched the boats fill with sailors. No marines yet—no muskets in formation. The sailors appeared to be adjusting lines or preparing torches.
"They're trying to fire from closer range," DJ concluded. "Direct line-of-sight shots."
The moment the message was relayed, the American artillery near the harbor fired again. Two cannonballs splashed dangerously close to the longboats. British officers shouted orders; the ships adjusted position.
One went too far forward—DJ caught it in the spyglass just as a burst of American fire struck its hull.
"She's hit!" DJ called out. "Front bow!"
The ship began drifting back awkwardly, smoke rising from its deck.
Merrick signaled the report.
Night began to fall. Lanterns were lit along the trenches. Officers paced up and down the hill, checking on gun crews and positioning.
DJ scanned the marshline again, switching from the harbor to the tree-covered ground.
Movement.
Shadowy figures.
"British lights in the marsh," DJ said sharply. "Small group. Fifteen to twenty."
Merrick looked surprised. "That's a probing unit."
"Or scouts," DJ said. "They're trying to test the line again."
Merrick signaled the watch on the left ridge. Moments later, American riflemen opened fire from concealed positions. The British probe retreated into the dark.
One militia man nearby looked impressed despite himself.
"Guess he wasn't making up that last attack," he muttered to his friend.
The friend shrugged. "Still doesn't mean the general should be listening to him."
DJ heard both comments, but said nothing.
An hour into full darkness, disaster nearly struck.
A signal runner from the lower batteries sprinted up the hill, out of breath. "We lost the left signal team—cannon misfire. They can't relay to the fort."
Merrick swore. "Without that link, Armistead won't know when the fleet shifts."
DJ didn't hesitate. "I'll go."
Merrick looked at him. "You can't see half the harbor from down there. It's too dark."
"I'm not going to watch the harbor. I'm relaying you."
The runner gulped air. "You want to run the whole line back and forth?"
"It's either that, or the fort gets caught off guard," DJ said.
Merrick looked at him for a long moment, then handed him a lantern with a hooded cover. "Fast as you can. Don't fall. You'll break your neck."
DJ tightened the lantern, raised his coat collar, and ran down the slope.
The lower battery was louder, closer to the shoreline. Cannon crews worked under dim light, firing at flashes on the water. Smoke stung DJ's eyes as he reached the platform.
"Signal from the hill!" he called.
The battery chief yelled, "Give it!"
DJ relayed Merrick's last message word for word. The battery chief signaled it to the fort.
Before DJ could catch his breath, Merrick's flags moved again at the top of the hill.
"Another one?" a gunner asked.
DJ nodded and ran uphill again.
He did this six times—up and down the slope, dodging crews, smoke, and debris. Sweat soaked through his shirt despite the cool night air.
The British bombardment grew heavier, lighting the sky with fire.
On his seventh run, as DJ neared the hilltop, a militia cannon on the ridge misfired, blowing its wheel apart in a deafening burst. Men scrambled away from the wreckage.
One militia gunner, pale and shaking, looked at DJ as he ran past. "You still going?"
"I don't have a choice," DJ said.
The gunner just stared at him, then nodded once.
The insults from earlier didn't return.
From the hill, DJ took the spyglass and spotted new movement.
"The center ships are shifting north," he said, breathing hard. "They're trying to angle fire deeper into the fort's interior. They might be targeting officers' quarters."
Merrick signaled immediately.
DJ ran again to the lower battery, relayed the message, and returned.
The fort responded by adjusting its return fire. A few of its shots landed close enough to force the British ships back into safer formation.
DJ's legs burned. His throat felt raw from smoke. His hands shook slightly, but he kept going.
Near midnight, Merrick finally ordered a break.
"You're going to collapse if you keep going," he said. "Sit down. Drink something."
DJ sat on an overturned barrel. His legs trembled.
Merrick handed him a tin cup of water. "General Smith might want a report from us soon. You'll give it. You saw more than anyone tonight."
DJ nodded, swallowing slowly.
The bombardment continued in the distance. Fort McHenry flashed every few seconds like a dying lighthouse, smoke rolling over its walls.
Merrick sat beside him. "Whether they like it or not, soldier or civilian… you're part of this now."
DJ didn't reply.
He just lifted the spyglass again, watching the harbor without flinching as another mortar shell arced across the night sky toward the fort.