By dawn, the British understood the northern crossing was no feint.
Smoke still hung over the riverbank from the previous day's fighting, drifting across shattered ice and broken equipment. American artillery had been dragged into place overnight, wheels wrapped in rope for traction, teams of exhausted men hauling iron through knee-deep snow. Isaiah's brigade had worked in silence while the rest of the army recovered from the confusion of the failed advance.
Now they were ready.
Across the field, British light infantry began forming along the outer entrenchments—tight lines behind timber and frozen earth. A forward battery shifted to face the river, its crews scrambling to reposition guns that had been aimed elsewhere only hours before.
"They're adjusting," Baird said quietly.
Isaiah nodded. "They expected a withdrawal."
Instead, he signaled forward.
His skirmishers moved first—small detachments slipping through the tree line along the eastern rise. They weren't advancing to take ground. They were advancing to be seen. Muskets cracked from the forest edge, drawing British attention toward what looked like a developing flank push.
It worked.
Redcoat companies began shifting east, officers shouting corrections as lines bent to meet the perceived threat. A pair of field guns rotated to cover the approach, abandoning their previous arc along the river.
Isaiah didn't wait.
"Signal the ridge battery."
A moment later, the first American cannon roared.
Shot slammed into the now-exposed center of the British line—timber splintering, men scattering as the defensive works absorbed the impact. Before the smoke cleared, the second gun fired, then the third. The entire northern line jolted under the sudden bombardment.
Howard's staff came galloping down from the rear moments later, shouting for coordination.
"General Howard requests you halt your advance until his divisions are in position!"
Isaiah didn't look away from the field.
"We're not advancing."
Another cannon fired.
"We're fixing them in place."
The British attempted to counter within minutes.
A column pushed forward through the snow toward the riverbank, bayonets leveled, drums beating cadence through the cold. Their officers had recognized the danger—if the artillery held that ridge uncontested, their northern defense would collapse in sections.
Isaiah raised his hand.
His forward companies stood from behind the frozen slope.
"Volley."
The first line fired cleanly, recoil kicking shoulders back as smoke burst across the field. The British column staggered but kept coming.
"Second rank—fire."
Another wave of musketry tore into them. Men dropped mid-stride, formation wavering.
Still they came.
Isaiah's voice didn't rise. "Reserve—step forward."
The third line emerged from concealment behind the crest—troops Howard had assumed were part of the baggage escort. They fired downhill into the tightening column at near point-blank range.
This time, the advance broke.
Survivors fell back toward their original works, cohesion gone.
To the west, Frasier's men had begun their own push across unstable ground—and were paying for it. British defenders, no longer under artillery pressure from that direction, had concentrated fire into the exposed advance. Units slowed, then stalled entirely under the sustained musketry.
Frasier's courier arrived breathless.
"We need support on the western line—now!"
Isaiah glanced once toward the ridge.
If he shifted his guns west, the northern battery would recover.
If he didn't, Frasier's advance would collapse.
He made the decision in seconds.
"Two guns—pivot west. Maintain alternating fire."
Crews moved immediately, dragging the lighter pieces into new arcs. The moment they were aligned, they fired into the British line pressuring Frasier's division. The effect was immediate—enemy volleys slackened as defenders dropped behind cover.
Frasier's stalled companies surged forward again.
Howard reached the forward slope shortly after, eyes darting between the repositioned guns and the stabilized western advance.
"You moved artillery without orders."
Isaiah kept watching the line.
"If their push failed, the entire assault would collapse."
Howard's jaw tightened—but he didn't argue.
Because it hadn't.
By midday, the British northern entrenchments had fallen back to secondary positions inside the outer defensive ring. Their patrols no longer ventured beyond musket range. American lines now held stable ground along both the ridge and the river approach.
Not a breakthrough.
But a fracture.
Isaiah lowered his glass.
"They'll counterattack before nightfall," he said.
Baird nodded once. "And this time?"
Isaiah's gaze settled on the city walls in the distance.
"This time, we let them."