The militia patrol returned to the docks just as the sun dipped low, staining the water a murky red. Their boots struck the planks in a steady rhythm—firmer, more disciplined than the workers but lacking the sharp precision of real soldiers. Baltimore's militia was mostly shopkeepers, sailors, and apprentices pressed into duty by fear of British ships.
Men who had families to protect. Men who were angry at the thought of foreign boots on American soil.
Their sergeant walked ahead: a tall, broad-shouldered white man in his thirties, uniform faded from too many drills. His hat sat low over narrowed eyes that scanned everything—the bay, the workers, the sky.
The sergeant stopped near Mr. Cooper. "Any trouble here?"
"None, Sergeant Reed," Mr. Cooper replied, wiping sweat from his brow. "We just heard the news about British movement."
Reed nodded grimly. "Aye. Sloop spotted near the mouth of the Bay. Could be scouting. Could be worse."
His gaze traveled down the line of workers…and stopped on Duwan.
It wasn't hostile. Not friendly either. Just…curious.
"You're the boy who cleared the walkway earlier," Reed said.
Duwan felt his stomach twist. All eyes turned toward him.
Mr. Cooper grunted. "Yes, sergeant. This one's got an odd sort of head on his shoulders today."
Reed approached, stopping only a few feet away. Up close, he smelled of musket oil and sweat, the scent of a man who spent more time drilling than sleeping.
"What's your name?" Reed asked.
Duwan hesitated. Remembered where he was—who he was supposed to be.
"Nathan, sir. Nathan Walker."
"Walker, hm." Reed folded his arms. "You got any soldiering in you?"
The question hit like a hammer. Duwan fought to keep his voice steady.
"I…I help out around the docks, sir. Not much else."
Reed tilted his head. "Funny. You spoke like someone who'd seen a battlefield."
Duwan swallowed. "Just…figured it out. The barrels. The walkway."
"Aye." Reed's eyes sharpened. "You understood how men move. How panic spreads. How a fire might start in the wrong place."
He paused. "That's not common thinking for a boy your age. Or any age."
A couple of the militia men murmured in agreement.
Duwan felt a warmth—a mix of fear and pride—creep into his chest.
Reed jerked his chin. "Walk with me."
Duwan blinked. "Sir?"
"Not asking twice, boy."
Josiah shot him a worried look. Mr. Cooper muttered something under his breath. But Duwan knew refusing wasn't an option. Not in 1812. Not with a white militia sergeant staring him down.
He followed Reed toward the edge of the pier where the water slapped lazily against the pilings.
"You from Baltimore, Nathan?" the sergeant asked without looking at him.
"Yes, sir," Duwan lied.
"Mm." Reed grunted. "You speak better than most dockhands. Quicker tongue. Clearer thinking."
Duwan's pulse hammered. He couldn't afford to stand out too much—but he also couldn't shrink away. Not if he wanted a place in this world.
"I read, sir," he said carefully. "My…mother taught me some."
That was plausible. Some free Black families taught their children to read quietly. Risky, but possible.
Reed nodded slowly. "Good skill. Rare skill."
He finally turned to face Duwan fully. His expression wasn't cruel—just gauging, like he was sorting through possibilities.
"You know anything about the British navy?"
Duwan's heart kicked. Too much, he thought. But he kept his face neutral.
"A little, sir. What I've read."
Reed pointed toward the Bay. "If a British raiding party landed right there on Fell's Point—what would they do first?"
Duwan's breath stopped.
He's testing me.
He looked out across the water. Imagined red coats hitting the docks, muskets raised. Imagined what the history books described. The patterns. The strategies.
He spoke slowly, choosing every word with care.
"They'd move to cut off the main road. Trap people between the water and the warehouses."
He gestured toward the narrow alleys. "Then they'd bring up marines to block escape routes. Push civilians inward. Create confusion before the militia can form."
Reed's eyebrows rose.
"And after that?" he pressed.
Duwan hesitated only a moment.
"They'd seize the cannons first," he said. "The two near the customs house. Without those, we can't hit their boats."
Reed stared at him for a long moment—long enough that Duwan's stomach twisted into knots.
Finally, the sergeant exhaled.
"You've got a good head, Nathan Walker," he said quietly. "Better than most men twice your age."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"Baltimore's going to need boys like you."
Duwan felt something shift inside him. The same feeling he'd had earlier—that rising, unfamiliar sense of purpose.