The fighting stopped before the city fell.
Not all at once—but in pieces.
A musket fired somewhere in the distance, then silence swallowed the sound. An American company cleared a barricade along the southern street without resistance. A British picket dropped their weapons near the courthouse square and were marched away without a word.
By dawn, the only organized resistance left in Montreal had withdrawn into the administrative quarter—stone buildings clustered around the governor's offices and the central armory.
They had barricaded every approach.
And they were waiting.
Howard wanted to end it quickly.
"We storm the quarter and raise the flag by noon," he said flatly, standing over the forward map table inside the captured dock warehouse. "Their line is broken. Their breakout failed. They don't have the numbers to hold."
Frasier agreed.
"A coordinated push from three streets. Artillery opens first, infantry follows. We'll have them in hours."
Isaiah didn't answer immediately.
He studied the sketch of the administrative block—the narrow streets, the warehouses behind it, the powder stores marked by British engineers who had been captured the previous day.
"How many charges did they place?" he asked Baird quietly.
"Four confirmed beneath the southern depot. Possibly more under the armory."
Howard's head snapped toward him. "Charges?"
Isaiah nodded once.
"They were wiring the docks when we took them. They'll do the same here."
Frasier frowned. "You're saying they'll blow the quarter?"
"I'm saying they'll destroy everything we just fought to take."
A storming would win the city.
But it would also give the British the excuse they needed.
A rushed assault meant chaos—smoke, fire, confusion. Engineers could detonate the depots before anyone realized what was happening. The administrative quarter would collapse into rubble, taking supply, infrastructure, and half the surrounding district with it.
Montreal would fall.
And be worthless.
Isaiah made the decision.
"Encircle the quarter," he said. "No advance beyond the outer streets. Bring the guns into the intersections—cover every exit."
Howard stared at him.
"We're not laying siege again."
"We're not," Isaiah replied. "We're making it clear they don't leave."
American lines tightened through the morning.
Infantry sealed off the western and southern approaches. Artillery rolled into position at the ends of narrow streets, barrels aimed toward barricades of overturned carts and furniture. Skirmishers moved through upper floors, taking sightlines over the quarter's entrances.
No shots were fired.
No drums sounded.
Just pressure.
Inside, British defenders shifted restlessly behind their barricades—officers shouting orders that no longer carried urgency. They had tried to break out. They had failed. Now the Americans were inside the city itself, with guns aimed at the only roads left open.
By midday, a white cloth appeared in an upper window.
The delegation arrived on foot.
A colonel in worn red stepped forward under escort, sword sheathed but still at his side. His boots were caked with mud and ash. Behind him walked two aides—one of them clutching a folded document with stiff fingers.
Howard met them at the barricade.
Isaiah stood just behind his right shoulder.
"Sir," the British officer began, voice tight but steady. "I am authorized to discuss terms for the surrender of Montreal."
Howard's reply was immediate.
"Unconditional."
The colonel's jaw flexed.
"Our engineers are prepared to destroy the remaining powder reserves and administrative depots if—"
Isaiah stepped forward before he could finish.
"You've already placed the charges," he said calmly.
Silence fell between them.
Howard glanced sideways.
The British officer didn't deny it.
"You destroy the quarter," Isaiah continued, "and your men die with it. You saw what happened to your breakout force. There's nowhere left to withdraw to."
The colonel's grip tightened on his gloves.
"You'll be treated as prisoners of war," Isaiah added. "Your wounded will be tended. Your officers retain their swords under parole."
Howard turned toward him sharply—but the British colonel had already heard enough.
"And the city?" he asked.
Isaiah didn't hesitate.
"Remains intact."
The document was signed before sunset.
British units began filing out of the administrative quarter in ordered ranks—stacking muskets along the street before being marched toward holding areas along the dock road. Engineers were escorted directly to the armory, where American officers supervised the removal of demolition charges beneath the powder stores.
Four beneath the southern depot.
Three under the quartermaster's warehouse.
Two more inside the governor's hall.
All wired.
All ready.
As night fell, American colors were raised above the administrative block.
No fires burned.
No warehouses collapsed into rubble.
Montreal had surrendered.
And it still stood.