Smoke still hung across the harbor like a gray blanket, but the sun was fully up now, turning the water a dull silver. The British bombardment continued, but it was different — less disciplined, more strained. Their fleet remained in the tightened pattern DJ's counter-assault had forced them into, and the adjusted angles were limiting what they could hit.
General Smith stood on the ridge with several officers, all watching the harbor through spyglasses. Fort McHenry still flew its storm flag. Torn, scorched, but upright.
"They expected the fort to fall by now," Smith said. "They're getting impatient."
DJ kept the spyglass steady. "They'll try to punch through with their small boats. If they can land marines, they'll pressure the fort from the rear."
Ridley muttered, "You can't know that."
"I can see their boats being loaded," DJ said.
Smith lowered his glass. "If they try to land behind the fort, Armistead will be trapped."
A messenger reached Smith. "General, Colonel Armistead requests any available fire support on the east battery. They're running low on powder."
Smith didn't hesitate. "We'll cover them as long as we can."
He turned to DJ. "Carter. Stay with the signal corps. Track every shift in those boats."
DJ nodded.
Around mid-morning, the British fleet finally committed to a new assault.
Longboats detached from several ships, rowing toward the narrow channel behind Fort McHenry. DJ saw it clearly.
"There," DJ said. "Ten boats. Maybe more behind them."
Merrick began signaling immediately.
The American batteries on the point opened fire. Water plumed around the longboats, forcing several to pull back. One boat took a direct hit and vanished under the spray.
But more kept coming.
"They're going to try again," DJ muttered.
"That's their last real chance," Merrick said.
DJ kept scanning. "They're bringing rockets. Congreve rockets in the sterns."
Merrick signaled again, warning the fort.
Seconds later, streaks of red and white sparks arced toward the fort's interior. Most missed. A few hit earthworks. None penetrated the main walls.
The British attempt slowed but didn't stop.
Around noon, the fleet tried adjusting again. One bomb ship advanced too far toward the shoals, trying to angle a shot deeper into the fort. Its anchor caught the mud, jerking the ship sideways.
DJ spotted it instantly.
"Ship stuck on the shoal. Mid-harbor," he said. "Its angle is exposed."
Smith heard him. "Which direction?"
DJ pointed. "There. They'll need minutes to free it."
Smith turned to the nearest artillery captain. "Aim everything we have. Full battery."
American cannons thundered from the ridge and lower points. A broadside of shots splashed around the sideways ship, some slamming into its hull.
A blast tore through the vessel's deck. Smoke billowed.
"Hit!" Merrick shouted.
The ship's crew scrambled to cut anchor lines. Another direct hit blew through its stern, and flames erupted.
British signal flags waved frantically across the fleet. Several bomb ships turned away to avoid the same fate.
The stuck ship burned, listing sideways as small boats rushed to rescue the crew.
The entire British firing line faltered. Mortar shots became scattered and irregular.
Merrick lowered his flags. "That one mattered."
DJ watched the harbor without speaking.
The British infantry in the marsh tried one last push but ran into reinforced American riflemen who had repositioned during the night. After a brief exchange of fire, the redcoats withdrew again — slower, more deliberate, but unmistakably retreating.
Officers along the ridge let out relieved breaths.
Captain Hawkins approached DJ. "Your counter-assault worked. They're losing coordination."
DJ just nodded.
General Smith kept watching the water. "Not over yet."
But even he sounded more confident.
Fort McHenry continued its slow, steady firing. The smoke around its walls shifted with the wind, but the fort itself remained standing.
Another mortar shell fell short. Another missed completely. Another exploded far behind the fort in a harmless patch of mud.
The British accuracy was falling apart.
By mid-afternoon, the fleet began pulling farther back into deeper water. Longboats returned to their ships. Rockets stopped firing. Mortars slowed to a few distant, half-hearted shots.
"They're leaving," Merrick said quietly.
DJ didn't lower the spyglass yet. "Watch the flagship. When it turns, the rest will follow."
It took five more minutes.
Then the flagship turned.
The rest followed.
The British fleet retreated toward the mouth of the Patapsco in full view of every defender on Hampstead Hill.
It was over.
Hawkins stepped forward next. "General Smith wants you at headquarters. He didn't say why."
DJ nodded and headed toward Smith's tent.
Inside the command tent, General Smith stood over casualty reports and troop disposition sheets. His uniform was stained from smoke and mud, his voice hoarse from shouting orders across two days of fighting.
DJ entered quietly.
Smith didn't look up at first. "Close the flap."
DJ did.
Smith set down the papers, exhaling slowly. "You saw the fleet pull out?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good," Smith said. "That means this isn't premature."
He walked around the table and studied DJ like he was trying to measure the full weight of what he was about to say.
"I've spoken with Armistead, Winder, and every senior officer who watched you over the last two days," Smith said. "Your counter-assault timing, your coordination with the signal corps, your battlefield reads—those weren't lucky guesses. They were the actions of someone who understands how to manage a battlefield."
DJ stayed silent. Smith continued.
"And frankly, we don't have enough men who can do that. Not in this war. Not with officers dropping dead or being carried off every hour."
He picked up a sealed document from the table.
"You're a civilian. You have no formal rank. No commission. No academy training."
Smith paused. "None of that matters right now."
DJ watched him, waiting.
Smith held out the paper. "Effective immediately, you're being given a battlefield commission to Lieutenant Colonel of the Maryland militia."
DJ blinked. "…Sir, that skips—"
"I know exactly what it skips," Smith said sharply. "Half the army will have a problem with it. Some will refuse to speak to you. Others will insist I've lost my mind."
He stepped closer.
"But you were the only one on that ridge who noticed what the British were doing before it mattered. The only one who put together a counter-move with enough precision to change the course of the attack. That earns authority, whether anyone likes it or not."
DJ finally took the document. His hands were steady.
Smith wasn't finished.
"You'll be placed on my staff," Smith explained. "Not as a messenger. Not as an observer. As an operational officer. You'll help plan our next moves. You'll learn the paperwork, the briefings, the command structure—all of it."
He sighed. "Understand something, Carter. This promotion paints a target on your back. Officers who've spent twenty years clawing their way up will despise you for outranking them overnight. Militia captains won't want to take orders from you. Some won't even pretend to hide it."
DJ nodded. "I understand."
"Good," Smith said. "Because none of that changes the fact that the fort is standing partly because of what you did. And when a man earns a thing in war, I don't care how old he is or what he looks like."
Smith gestured toward the flap. "Get cleaned up. You'll brief the captains at sundown. From now on, they answer to you."
DJ stepped outside with the commission in hand. Soldiers were still packing equipment, checking wounded, and keeping watch on the emptying harbor. No one knew yet. No one turned to look.
He folded the paper into his coat, kept his head down, and walked across the ridge as just another figure among the tired defenders of Baltimore — but no longer just another runner.
He was Lt. Colonel Carter now.
And everyone was going to hear that sooner or later.