DJ didn't get ten steps from Smith's tent before the reactions started.
A few militia men were staring at the paper he'd tucked into his coat. They couldn't read it, but they knew an official seal when they saw one. Most ignored him, too exhausted from the battle to care. But two captains hauling crates stopped talking mid-sentence, watching him like he'd grown a second head.
He kept walking.
General Smith's headquarters had been moved into a sturdier stone building overlooking the Patapsco. Inside, officers filled the long room—regulars in blue, militia officers still in smoke-stained civilian clothes, and a handful of artillery lieutenants who looked half dead from fatigue.
DJ stepped inside, and the murmuring stopped.
One man spoke first.
"Why is he in here?"
The voice came from Captain Norris of the 39th Regiment—a tall officer with blood still on his collar. He stared at DJ as if he were a joke no one wanted to laugh at.
Smith answered without looking up from the map.
"He's here because I ordered him here."
That shut the room up, but only for a moment.
When DJ moved to take an empty seat, another officer—Major Rollins, gray-haired, heavy-set—shifted his chair deliberately to block him.
"That seat is for field officers," Rollins said.
Smith didn't look up. "He is one."
Rollins froze. A few lieutenants craned their necks. DJ kept his face straight even as the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Smith finally set down his pencil. "Gentlemen, I'll make this plain. Carter has been promoted—by my authority and with the approval of Brigadier General Winder—to Lieutenant Colonel. Anyone who cannot abide that should leave this room immediately and return their commission."
No one moved, but several jaws tightened.
DJ took the seat.
Smith pointed to the map. "British ships are regrouping outside the harbor. We'll discuss reinforcing the eastern approaches."
Immediately Captain Norris spoke. "With respect, sir, are we now taking strategic recommendations from… a boy?"
Smith didn't answer. "Carter. What are your observations?"
The room bristled at that. DJ could feel it, but he leaned forward anyway.
He traced the shoreline with the end of a quill. "The British aren't going to try another full bombardment. They'd waste powder. They'll probe the river shallows instead. Looking for somewhere to land troops."
A lieutenant scoffed under his breath. DJ kept talking.
"If they land north of the fort and push west, they can cut the road to Hampstead Hill. That line is thin, sir. If they collapse it, Baltimore is open."
Some of the officers exchanged glances—annoyed, yes, but also uneasy, because they knew the point was correct.
Major Rollins folded his arms.
"And how do you know the habits of His Majesty's Navy, Lieutenant Colonel?"
DJ met his eyes. "Because I paid attention."
Silence.
Smith didn't hide the faint smirk. "Continue."
DJ pointed to high ground near the water. "If we put two companies here and an artillery battery on the ridge, it forces their landing attempt into a choke point. They'd have to wade through mud under direct fire."
Rollins muttered, "This is absurd."
But an artillery officer—Lieutenant Baird—cleared his throat.
"General… the boy—Lieutenant Colonel—has a point. That ridge is the only firm ground they can reach without losing half their men in the marsh."
That shifted the room.
Smith nodded. "We'll reinforce the ridge."
Norris slammed a fist lightly on the table. "Sir, this is madness. Promoting him is one thing—giving him authority over deployments is another."
Smith straightened. "You're not hearing me. He's a Lieutenant Colonel. His authority is not symbolic."
He looked around the room, making that point settle like weight dropping onto shoulders.
"Carter's counter-assault yesterday prevented the British from overrunning the southeast positions. He earned this rank. Now accept it."
DJ said nothing. He didn't need to.
When the meeting ended, officers filed out stiffly. A few avoided even glancing at DJ. Others stared openly, making sure he saw their resentment.
Outside, Lieutenant Baird approached him.
"You made enemies in there," Baird said quietly. "Important ones."
"I noticed."
"You also made a few who'll listen to you," Baird added. "Don't waste it."
Baird walked off, leaving DJ alone in the doorway.
A moment later, Captain Norris brushed past him so close their shoulders almost collided.
"You may have the paper," Norris muttered, "but you haven't earned the right to command me."
DJ turned his head. "Then follow Smith's orders, not mine."
Norris stopped, surprised.
DJ continued, calm and level. "You don't have to like me. You don't have to listen to anything I say. But you will listen to him. And he put me on the staff. So if you ignore my recommendations, you're ignoring his authority."
Norris stared at him, jaw tight, then walked away without another word.
DJ exhaled slowly. He knew this was only the beginning.
By afternoon, he was standing on the ridge he'd recommended, overseeing the placement of artillery. Men were still side-eyeing him, muttering, whispering.
But they were obeying orders.
DJ checked the angles of the cannon, the range markers, the locations of the infantry companies setting up along the slope.
One sergeant approached him reluctantly.
"Sir… respectfully… we never seen someone promoted this fast. Not even during the worst fighting in Canada."
DJ answered plainly. "I didn't ask for it. But the British aren't going to wait for anyone to get comfortable, so we don't have time to argue about it."
The sergeant nodded once and went back to work.
Near sunset, while adjusting firing arcs on a map, DJ overheard two lieutenants whispering behind him.
"…never last a week—no support—political nightmare—"
He didn't turn. He didn't speak.
Instead, he kept working.
If he wanted to survive in this new position, he had to prove he deserved the rank—not with speeches, not with defiance, but with decisions that saved lives and held the city together.
Baltimore had survived the bombardment.
But the war wasn't over.
DJ had one advantage none of them could see: he already knew the British wouldn't try another assault on the city after the failure at Fort McHenry.
But he couldn't rely on that knowledge.
He had to act as if they might.
By nightfall, every company on the ridge was in position. Every cannon had a clear field of fire. Every approach was measured and plotted.