They moved out before full dawn.
Mist clung low to the ground, dampening sound and turning the trees along the riverbank into gray silhouettes. DJ rode at the center of the column, flanked by two companies—boots soft in wet earth, bayonets fixed but muskets held low.
This was supposed to be a sweep.
Find British skirmishers. Clear them out. Report back.
Simple.
That's what made it dangerous.
The lead company slowed as they reached a narrow stretch of woods where the ground dipped toward a shallow creek. Visibility dropped fast. Brush thickened. Sound carried strangely.
DJ raised a hand.
"Hold."
The column stopped unevenly. Some men halted immediately. Others took another step or two before stopping. Sloppy.
DJ scanned the tree line.
Too quiet.
"Captain Mercer," he said without turning. "Send flankers left and right. Twenty paces. Slow."
Mercer hesitated.
"We ain't seen anything yet, sir."
DJ turned then. "That's why."
Mercer shifted uncomfortably but didn't move.
From the ranks, someone muttered, "Always jumpy."
DJ ignored it—for now.
"Captain," he said again, voice flat. "Flankers. Now."
Mercer sighed, then waved half-heartedly. A few men peeled off, poorly spaced, joking under their breath.
DJ felt it then.
That tight pressure behind the eyes. The sense that something was about to go wrong because people thought they knew better.
He opened his mouth to correct it—
And the world exploded.
A musket cracked from the trees. Then another. Then a full ragged volley tore through the mist.
A man screamed and went down clutching his leg. Another dropped without a sound.
"CONTACT!" someone shouted.
The column lurched into chaos.
Men shouted questions. Some fired blindly into the trees. Others froze. One group started backing up without orders.
DJ drew breath to shout commands—
And they didn't listen.
"Form line!" he ordered.
Nothing.
"Second Company, dress right!"
They didn't hear him. Or they chose not to.
Captain Mercer was yelling something contradictory. Sergeants shouted over each other. Smoke thickened. Another volley hit—too close.
A musket ball cracked past DJ's ear and buried itself in a tree.
That did it.
DJ stepped forward into the open.
"ENOUGH."
His voice cut through the noise like a blade.
Not louder—harder.
Every word struck clean.
"EVERY MAN SHUT YOUR MOUTH AND LOOK AT ME."
Men froze.
Some mid-reload. Some half-crouched. Even Mercer stopped.
DJ didn't shout again. He didn't need to.
"You are being flanked," he said coldly. "Left side. Forty yards. They have eight—maybe ten—men. Light infantry."
He pointed.
"They are waiting for you to panic. You are doing exactly what they want."
Silence. Smoke drifted.
"You will form line here," DJ continued. "You will not fire until ordered. You will aim low."
His eyes locked onto Mercer.
"Captain Mercer. You will move your company ten paces forward and anchor the left. If you fail, they roll us up and we all die."
Mercer swallowed. "Sir—"
DJ stepped closer.
"This is not a discussion."
The words were quiet.
Final.
Mercer nodded sharply. "Left company—MOVE!"
The men moved. Fast now.
DJ turned to the rest.
"Second Company—kneel. Third—stand. Fix your spacing."
A British musket cracked. A ball thudded into the dirt at DJ's feet.
He didn't flinch.
"READY."
Men raised muskets. Hands shaking. Breathing loud.
"WAIT."
The enemy fired again—wild shots through brush.
"WAIT."
Someone whimpered.
DJ's jaw tightened.
"FIRE."
The volley hit like a wall.
Screams from the trees. One body tumbled into view. Another crawled, then stopped.
"RELOAD."
The men moved as one now.
Another British shot—weak, scattered.
"ADVANCE FIVE PACES."
They advanced.
"FIRE."
This time, nothing came back.
Smoke cleared enough to see bodies retreating—or not retreating at all.
DJ lowered his hand.
"Cease fire."
The woods went still.
Breathing. Groans. The soft clink of ramrods being replaced.
It was over.
They found seven British dead. Two wounded left behind. The rest had fled.
American losses: three wounded. One serious.
Could have been worse.
Much worse.
The battalion stood quietly now. No whispers. No jokes.
DJ walked down the line slowly.
When he reached Mercer, the captain stiffened.
"You hesitated," DJ said.
"Yes, sir."
"You disobeyed."
"Yes, sir."
DJ held his gaze.
"Do it again and I will remove you in front of your men."
Mercer nodded. "Understood."
DJ turned to the rest of them.
"You questioned me because you did not respect me," he said evenly. "That ends today."
No anger. No heat.
Just certainty.
"I am not here to be liked. I am here to keep you alive long enough to win."
He looked at Hale—the private who had spoken up the day before.
Hale met his eyes. Didn't look away.
"You loaded when told," DJ said. "You fired straight."
Hale swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"That's all I require."
He faced the battalion.
"When I give an order, you follow it. Immediately. Or you will die confused and useless."
A pause.
"If that offends you, request transfer. If it frightens you, good."
Silence.
Then the sergeant major stepped forward and saluted sharply.
"Battalion will obey, sir."