The fighting slowed after Bramble Field.
Not because the war was finished—but because both sides were bleeding, probing, waiting. Isaiah Carter found himself with something he had not possessed since the campaign began.
Time.
He sat alone in a borrowed tent on the edge of camp, lantern burning low, rain tapping softly against canvas. Outside, men slept in exhausted silence. The battalion had done its work. Orders had been carried out. Lines had held.
For the first time in weeks, Isaiah's mind drifted beyond the next march.
Beyond the next volley.
Toward what came after.
Isaiah stared at a rough map spread across the table—ink smudged, corners frayed. Canada lay to the north, a land still scarred by previous campaigns. British strongholds. Rivers. Roads that barely deserved the name.
But his thoughts were no longer purely military.
If I survive this…
He imagined a country that did not yet exist.
Factories that ran on standardized parts instead of hand-fit iron. Mills powered by improved steam engines—stronger boilers, better pressure control. Canals cut with precision. Roads graded properly instead of turning to mud at the first rain.
Firearms with interchangeable components.
Railroads—true railroads—linking cities that were still little more than large towns.
He saw it all clearly, not as dreams but as inevitabilities.
They don't know what's coming, he thought. And I do.
Isaiah knew something dangerous: wars ended, but power remained. Titles faded. Money didn't.
He thought about shipyards—Baltimore's waterfront ripe for expansion. Faster hull designs. Better pulleys. Improved dry docks.
He thought about agriculture—iron plows that didn't shatter. Crop rotation explained scientifically, not guessed at.
He thought about banks, insurance, logistics.
He thought about becoming untouchable.
Not just respected.
Secure.
And he understood something else, quietly and with unsettling clarity:
The battlefield was only the beginning.
A week later, official orders arrived.
Isaiah was summoned—not to the front line, but to headquarters.
The room was larger than the one he'd first stood in weeks earlier. Cleaner. Quieter. More dangerous.
General Smith stood near the table. So did two men Isaiah had not met before—one from the War Department, another wearing the insignia of a senior command out of Washington.
The atmosphere was stiff.
Formal.
"You've made yourself difficult to ignore, Colonel Carter," one of the men said.
Isaiah blinked once.
"Colonel?"
Smith nodded. "Effective immediately."
The man from Washington folded his hands. "Your after-action reports are… exceptionally thorough."
Isaiah said nothing.
"They've caused friction," the man continued. "You understand that."
"Yes, sir."
"Good." A pause. "They've also shown results."
Smith interjected. "We need commanders who can control men under pressure. Canada's front is unstable."
Isaiah felt it before the words were spoken.
The weight shifted.
"We are preparing a renewed northern campaign," the Washington official said. "An invasion, if you want to call it that."
Isaiah met his eyes calmly.
"You want me to lead it."
The man studied him. "You would command a composite force. Regulars. Militia. Some… difficult personalities."
Isaiah almost smiled.
"What is the objective?" he asked.
"Secure territory. Break British supply lines. Force negotiations and you will be updated if that is completed."
Isaiah nodded slowly.
Inside, calculations unfolded like clockwork.
Terrain. Rivers. Ice. Logistics. Supply wagons. Winter quarters. Morale.
I can do this.
Not bravado.
Certainty.
"I will need authority," Isaiah said. "Clear authority. Over officers as well as men."
Smith smiled faintly.
"You'll have it."
The Washington man hesitated. "There will be resistance."
Isaiah's voice was steady.
"There already is."
Silence followed.
Then the official nodded.
"You will be promoted to Brigadier General upon acceptance of command."
Isaiah exhaled once.
"Then I accept."
That night, Isaiah returned to his tent.
He did not sleep.
He wrote instead.
Not orders.
Plans.
Notes for a future no one else could see yet.
Steam transport improvements.
Standardized weapon parts.
Manufacturing contracts post-war.
Veterans as trained labor force.
Northern trade routes after occupation.
He paused, pen hovering.
Reputation first. Wealth second. Influence last.
Outside, the wind shifted north.
Toward Canada.
Toward colder ground and harder fighting.
Isaiah folded the papers carefully and placed them inside his coat.
Tomorrow, he would begin planning an invasion.