The bombardment barely eased through the night. By dawn, Fort McHenry was still standing, though the entire sky over the harbor hung with gray smoke. The British fleet kept its distance but had not let up. Every few minutes another heavy mortar shell boomed into the air and burst near the fort.
DJ's eyes were bloodshot from smoke and exhaustion. His legs still burned from running messages, but he stayed on the hilltop with Merrick, scanning the water.
General Smith rode up the slope just after sunrise.
He saw DJ first. "Carter," Smith said. "You held the line of communication?"
"Yes, sir."
Merrick spoke up. "Without him, the fort would've been blind half the night."
Smith didn't comment directly. He gestured DJ to follow him to the command tent at the ridge.
Inside, officers gathered around a scorched map table. Their faces were grim, uniforms dusty. The air smelled of powder and wet earth.
Smith pointed to the British fleet positions. "They're holding distance. Their infantry withdrew farther into the marsh. They're waiting for an opening." He paused. "Armistead says he can hold, but not forever."
DJ studied the map. "Their main weakness is the ships that drift west during range corrections. They're exposed for several minutes when adjusting anchor lines."
One of the officers—Captain Ridley—frowned. "And what do you propose? Storm their fleet?"
"No," DJ said. "But you can force their fleet to reposition into a tighter pattern."
Ridley scoffed. "How?"
DJ tapped two points on the shoreline. "A concentrated land assault here and here. Not to break through, but to make them think you're preparing a harbor breach. It will pressure the fleet to shift coverage."
Smith folded his arms. "You're describing a diversionary attack."
"Yes," DJ said. "A loud one. Controlled. Limited range. Fire only until the fleet closes formation—then pull back before they hammer you. If the fleet tightens its pattern, it limits their bombardment angles. Armistead gets fewer incoming shells."
Ridley shook his head. "We don't have men to waste in a feint."
"It's not a feint," DJ said. "It's timing. You attack when they fire long-range shells. The fleet won't risk hitting their own men if they tighten north and east. They'll adjust distance instead of aim."
Smith stared at the map for a long moment.
Another officer asked, "How do we know when to start?"
DJ pointed to the harbor. "Watch the smoke drift. When the wind pushes west-to-east, their shells overshoot slightly. They correct by pulling inward. That moment is when you strike."
Ridley opened his mouth again, but Smith cut him off. "Enough. The idea has merit."
Smith looked straight at DJ. "If this works, we'll relieve pressure on the fort and disrupt the fleet."
DJ nodded, saying nothing else.
Smith turned to the officers. "Organize two assault groups. Light companies only. No heavy infantry. Fast movement, coordinated firing."
Ridley muttered, "We're taking orders from a boy now?"
Smith didn't look at him. "We're using his information. Not his rank."
Ridley said nothing further.
DJ accompanied the officers down to the staging ground. Militia and light infantry assembled in loose formations. New orders circulated quickly.
Sergeants barked instructions, adjusting powder bags and checking cartridge boxes.
DJ approached the two designated assault units:
A light militia company under Captain Weller
A regular army detachment under Lieutenant Hawkins
Both men studied DJ with curiosity.
"You're the one with the plan?" Weller asked.
"It's not really a plan," DJ said. "Just timing."
Hawkins looked toward the harbor. "When do we move?"
"When the smoke starts drifting east," DJ said, scanning the air currents. "And when their mortar crews begin adjusting elevation. Watch the ships—they tilt differently when recalibrating."
Weller nodded reluctantly. "Fine. We'll move when you give the word."
Nearby, the same militia man who had mocked DJ the day before watched him with a mixture of exhaustion and surprise.
"This some kind of revenge for us giving you trouble?" he asked.
"No," DJ said flatly. "I'm trying to stop the fort from getting crushed."
The man didn't reply. He tightened his belt and returned to his squad.
Around mid-morning, the wind shifted almost imperceptibly. Smoke rising from the British shells began to bend eastward. The fleet adjusted anchor lines. One bomb ship swung awkwardly, struggling to correct position.
DJ lowered the spyglass.
"Now," he said.
Weller and Hawkins relayed the order. The two assault units surged forward along separate paths, staying within the ridges to avoid early detection.
American cannons opened up behind them, firing over their heads at pre-measured angles. The sudden roar caused the British fleet to adjust instinctively.
Mortar fire paused—briefly.
Then the British troops in the marsh saw the assault units closing in.
DJ watched from the ridge as Hawkins' detachment fired coordinated volleys across the marsh. Weller's militia fired irregularly but loudly enough to make the assault seem larger than it was.
British officers scrambled to form defensive lines.
The British fleet reacted exactly as DJ predicted: cannons angled to cover the expected shoreline breach, pulling their formation tighter.
Merrick flagged Fort McHenry. The fort shifted its fire, taking advantage of the new angles.
A heavy mortar shell overshot completely—landing harmlessly in the water.
Another came down too early, exploding short of the fort.
Merrick grinned. "It's working."
But the British infantry started pushing aggressively toward Hawkins' men.
DJ saw the danger immediately. He shouted over the noise:
"Signal withdrawal!"
Merrick relayed the order.
Weller's militia began pulling back first, firing as they retreated. Hawkins' men followed in orderly fashion, keeping formation even as British volleys hit the dirt around them.
A few militia stragglers hesitated, firing one last round before sprinting uphill.
DJ ran down part of the ridge to help guide them. "Move! Don't stay clustered!"
They listened—fear beating out skepticism.
Hawkins' detachment reached the ridge safely. Only two men had taken wounds—both glancing musket shots.
Weller exhaled shakily. "That was closer than I liked."
DJ looked toward the harbor. The British fleet remained tight—too tight. Their bombardment was significantly less effective.
Not stopped, but weaker.
Smith arrived on horseback moments later. "Report?"
Merrick saluted. "Their fleet is boxed in. They pulled closer and reduced firing angles."
Smith looked out over the water. "Fort McHenry holds because of this."
He didn't look at DJ directly, but the officers around him finally saw the result.
DJ didn't say anything. He simply returned the spyglass to Merrick and kept watching the harbor.
The counter-assault had done what it needed to do.