The counterattack came just before dusk.
Not as a charge—but as pressure.
British guns opened first, their fire deliberate and methodical. Roundshot tore into the ridge where Isaiah's forward companies had entrenched, smashing through frozen parapets and throwing dirt and splinters into the air. Infantry followed behind the barrage, advancing in staggered lines that used the artillery's rhythm as cover.
"They're probing," Hale muttered.
"No," Isaiah replied. "They're reclaiming."
The outer ring wasn't just a defensive line—it was their breathing room. If they forced the Americans off the ridge now, the siege would stretch into weeks.
Isaiah turned to the signal officer. "Pull the skirmishers back twenty yards."
The man hesitated. "Sir?"
"Now."
Whistles cut across the slope. Forward elements began falling back in controlled bursts, disappearing behind secondary cover. To the British, it looked like strain—like a line beginning to give under pressure.
They pressed harder.
Another volley of cannon fire slammed into the ridge, followed by advancing red lines stepping over churned snow. Officers waved swords forward, sensing momentum.
Howard saw it too.
"They're breaking your flank!" he shouted from horseback. "Reinforce before they collapse it!"
Isaiah didn't move.
"Hold your position, General."
Howard stared at him in disbelief. "You're losing ground!"
"Not yet."
The British advance reached the forward slope within minutes.
They moved quickly—too quickly—closing the distance with bayonets lowered, confident the artillery had softened resistance. The first American trench appeared abandoned. Muskets lay half-buried in snow, packs discarded.
They stepped over it.
Then the ground beneath them erupted.
Isaiah's engineers had spent the afternoon carving shallow fire pits behind the initial works—positions masked by the retreat. As the British advanced past the visible trench line, they entered a crossfire pocket without realizing it.
"Now."
American muskets rose from both sides of the slope.
The first volley hit from the left. The second from the right. A third crashed into the center from infantry Isaiah had concealed behind the ridge's reverse incline.
The advance stalled instantly—men dropping mid-stride, formation collapsing under fire from three directions.
Before they could recover, the ridge battery fired.
Canister shot tore through the compressed line at close range. Snow burst into clouds of white and red. Officers shouted for retreat, but confusion had already taken hold. Units that tried to fall back collided with those still advancing behind them.
Isaiah stepped forward slightly.
"Infantry—advance to the primary trench. Maintain fire."
His brigade moved in sequence, not pursuit. Controlled pressure, pushing the disordered British force back across the ground they had just taken.
Within minutes, the slope was clear.
To the west, Frasier's line saw the British recoil and surged forward again—this time meeting only scattered resistance. American flags began appearing along sections of the outer defensive ring as ground shifted yard by yard.
Howard rode back toward Isaiah, breath visible in sharp bursts.
"You let them walk into it."
Isaiah didn't answer.
Because he had.
Night fell with American artillery repositioned inside the abandoned outer works. Montreal's secondary defenses were now within direct range. British patrols had withdrawn entirely behind interior lines, their earlier confidence replaced with caution.
Fires burned along the captured ridge as soldiers reset trenches and hauled ammunition forward.
Baird approached quietly. "They won't try that again."
"No," Isaiah said.
He looked toward the city—closer now, its walls no longer distant shapes but looming stone beyond the smoke.
"Next time," he added, "they'll wait for us to come to them."
And that was exactly what he needed.