Evening descended early, carried on a wind that tasted of salt and distant smoke. Rumors traveled through Baltimore faster than ships ever could—British sails spotted near the mouth of the bay, militia called up in full, officers riding hard through the streets shouting orders.
The docks transformed in minutes.
Men dropped tools. Merchants barricaded their shops. Cannon crews unlimbered their guns, rolling them into position with hurried shouts. Militia companies clustered near the waterfront, their formations sloppy but eager.
Duwan pushed through the swelling crowd, his heart hammering. He needed to find Sergeant Reed. Needed to convince someone—anyone—to read the strategy he'd written.
This might be the one chance to actually change history.
Josiah caught up, panting. "Nathan! They're calling out every man who can hold a musket. Even dockhands."
"That means us?" Duwan asked.
"Afraid so." Josiah glanced nervously at the growing militia ranks. "If the British come, this'll be a bloodbath."
Not if the militia fought smart. But smart wasn't something the Baltimore militia had a reputation for.
Duwan spotted Reed near the edge of the water, barking orders as men stacked crates into makeshift barricades.
"Stay here," he whispered to Josiah.
He jogged toward Reed—only to be stopped by two militia privates.
"Hold it," one said. "Militia only past this line."
"I—I work for Mr. Cooper," Duwan said quickly. "Sergeant Reed told me yesterday to come help with labor if things got bad."
The men exchanged a look. One shrugged. "Fine. Make it quick."
Duwan slipped past them, heart racing.
Reed stood with two junior officers, pointing toward the far side of the docks.
"…and if the ships land marines there, we'll need men ready to fall back through—"
"Sergeant Reed?" Duwan said.
Reed turned sharply. "Nathan? What are you doing here?"
"I brought something," Duwan said quietly. He opened his coat just enough to reveal the folded paper. "Something you need to see."
Reed frowned. "Is that a tally sheet? Boy, this is hardly the—"
"It's not a tally sheet," Duwan whispered. "It's a defensive layout."
The two junior officers snorted.
"A defensive what?" one said, mockingly.
Reed's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
Duwan unfolded the paper with trembling hands. "Sir… if the British land companies of marines here"—he pointed—"they'll try to push inland along the main street. If we shift the two cannons from the customs house up to the dockline, it forces them to hug the shipyard instead. And the alleys there choke their formation."
The younger officers scoffed.
"He drew a child's map," one muttered.
"Better than yours," Reed snapped.
Both men fell silent.
Reed studied the marks on the paper more carefully. His brow furrowed deeper. He stepped aside, motioning for Duwan to follow.
"You came up with this yourself?" he whispered.
Duwan nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Where'd you learn tactics like this?"
"My uncle taught me." It was the safest lie—close to the truth, but impossible to trace.
Reed exhaled through his nose. "The sad thing is, this is better thought-out than half the plans officers send me."
"Sir," Duwan said, voice tightening, "if the cannons stay where they are, the British will overrun this area in minutes."
Reed nodded, grim. "I know."
There was a moment of heavy silence.
Then Reed folded the paper carefully and tucked it inside his coat, as if it were something precious.
"I'll show this to Captain Loring," he said. "He won't like taking advice from…" Reed hesitated, not unkindly. "From a dockworker. But he will listen to me."
Relief washed through Duwan—but it didn't last.
A loud shout cut across the docks.
"Militia! Form up!"
Reed grabbed Duwan's arm. "You're coming with me."
"Me?"
"You can fight?" Reed demanded.
"I—I can aim," Duwan stammered. "And reload fast."
"Good. That's more than some of these boys." Reed turned to Josiah, who had followed at a distance. "You too. Both of you are attached to my line."
Duwan swallowed hard.
This was it.
Tomorrow's battle would decide whether he altered history—or died in it.
The militia line formed unevenly near the waterfront. Men clutched old muskets with stiff fingers. Some looked excited. More looked terrified.
A drummer boy no older than twelve tapped a shaky beat.
Reed moved down the line, steadying men with brief, firm words.
When he reached Duwan, he placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You've got a head for this," Reed murmured. "But tonight…you keep your head down. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
As Reed walked away, Josiah whispered, "This was your plan, wasn't it? That paper?"
"Part of it."
"You think they'll actually follow it?"
"I don't know," Duwan admitted. "But if they don't…this whole front collapses."
A cold wind blew from the bay, carrying the sound of distant thunder.
Not thunder—cannon fire.
Men flinched.
Reed raised his voice. "Steady! They're only signaling ships. They're not here yet."
But Duwan could see it on the horizon.
Dark silhouettes against darker waves.
British sails.
The real thing.
The storm he'd been preparing for.
And tomorrow, he would step into history—not as a bullied kid from the future, but as a soldier whose mind might save a city.
Or doom it.
Dawn came gray and heavy, like the sky itself didn't want to wake up.
Hardly anybody had slept. Militia men dozed sitting up or leaning against crates, muskets across their laps. Duwan had barely closed his eyes at all. Every time he tried, he heard cannon fire in the back of his mind—echoes of battles he'd only read about, but now was about to actually live.
By sunrise, the harbor was crawling with activity.
Men tense. Officers shouting orders that contradicted each other. Church bells ringing somewhere deeper in the city. Smoke hanging low over the water from the night's signal shots.
Duwan stood in the militia line, shivering even though the air wasn't that cold. Josiah stood beside him, eyes fixed on the bay.
"You think they'll really come?" Josiah whispered.
"They're already here," Duwan said.
He pointed. Three dark specks on the horizon were slowly growing, creeping closer like sharks.
British landing craft.
Josiah muttered a prayer under his breath.
Captain Loring rode up, red-faced and disheveled. He looked like he'd been dragged out of bed and stuffed into his uniform. Reed followed behind him, calm as always.
"Men!" Loring called out. "Steady yourselves! The British intend to make a quick strike, but we'll send them right back where they came from! Cannons are in position!"
Duwan felt a pit in his stomach.
No they aren't.
The cannons were still two hundred yards too far south—the mistake his plan was meant to fix. The gunners hadn't moved them during the night.
Reed must've noticed too. His jaw tightened when he saw the battery's placement.
They were going to be firing at the wrong angle.
"Sir," Reed said to Loring quietly, "we need those guns up on the higher dockline now—before they anchor."
Loring waved a dismissive hand. "No time."
"But—"
"I said no time. Get your line ready, Sergeant."
Reed's nostrils flared, but he obeyed.
He returned to the militia line and stopped in front of Duwan.
"I showed him your plan," Reed muttered under his breath. "He skimmed it. Didn't even read the whole thing."
Duwan nearly cursed out loud. "He won't reposition the cannons?"
"He thinks it's unnecessary," Reed said, bitterness creeping into his voice. "Thinks 'the boy's overthinking things.' His words."
Duwan's heart dropped.
Tomorrow's disaster was about to unfold today.
And he was stuck inside it.
The British boats hit shallower water. Red-coated marines began to wade through, muskets held high. Their officers shouted crisp commands that carried clearly across the bay.
The militia line trembled like a single frightened animal.
One man bolted outright—threw down his musket and ran. No one stopped him.
Reed shouted, "Hold the line!"
But it barely worked.
Duwan swallowed hard. He forced his feet to stay planted.
You knew this was coming. You can't back down now.
The first volley came from the British skirmishers—sharp, cracking shots that echoed through the docks. A militia man two rows over dropped instantly, arm torn open. Someone screamed. Someone else vomited.
Chaos rippled through the line as men ducked, flinched, stepped backward.
"Hold steady!" Reed roared.
Duwan's hands were shaking so badly he nearly dropped his musket. But he got it up. Aimed. Tried to steady his breath like he'd practiced the night before.
"Fire!"
The militia's volley went out in a ragged roar, smoke billowing everywhere. A few British marines fell. Most didn't.
They pressed forward.
And the cannons—so poorly placed—fired next.
Boom.
Boom.
But the angle was off. The shots splashed water near the landing craft or hit nothing at all. One shot glanced off a shipyard pile, blowing splinters over their own men.
Loring cursed loudly. Reed closed his eyes briefly like he was swallowing frustration.
Duwan whispered, "We're gonna get flanked."
Reed opened his eyes. "I know."
"Sir," Duwan said, "you have to move the line back. Make them funnel through the shipyard. That's where the alleys are."
Reed hesitated.
Duwan didn't. "If we stay here, we'll break."
Reed looked at him—really looked at him—like he was weighing whether to trust a sixteen-year-old kid in the middle of a battle.
Finally he snapped toward the nearest corporal. "Pull the left flank back fifty yards! Bring them into the timber lanes!"
"Yes, sir!"
The militia began falling back—not in a panicked rout this time, but in a controlled retreat, guided by Reed's sharp commands.
The British marines, thinking the line was collapsing, rushed forward faster.
And then the alleys narrowed.
Just as Duwan predicted.
The shipyard's piles of timber created natural choke points—tight spaces where British muskets were nearly useless.
The first group of marines pushed through the gap—and were suddenly hit by three angles of militia fire. The confusion bought precious seconds.
Reed shouted, "Reload! Keep it tight! Fire again!"
Duwan worked his musket mechanically. Bite cartridge. Pour powder. Ram. Prime. Aim.
He fired again.
A British officer stumbled back clutching his shoulder. Another fell face-first.
The marines tried to form a line, but there was no room. Their formation dissolved into clusters of frantic men trying to push forward or back at the same time.
"This is working," Josiah whispered, stunned. "Nathan—this is actually working."
Duwan didn't respond. He just reloaded with shaking hands, smoke burning his eyes.
For a moment—just a moment—he felt something fierce rise inside him:
Not pride.
Not triumph.
Just the realization that his presence here… mattered.
He wasn't just surviving history.
He was changing it.
Loring charged down the line on horseback, furious. "Sergeant Reed! Who ordered this withdrawal? I told you to maintain position!"
Reed opened his mouth—but Loring didn't let him speak.
"You disobeyed a direct—"
A musket ball cracked past Loring's head, missing him by inches. The horse panicked, nearly throwing him off.
Reed finally said, "With respect, sir, holding the waterfront would've gotten us slaughtered."
"My orders—"
"Saved the line," Reed snapped. "Look around, Captain."
Loring hesitated as he saw the trapped British marines falling back in confusion.
Reed continued: "We used the terrain. Forced them into a choke. That wasn't luck."
Loring's gaze slid to Duwan.
"What did you do?" he demanded.
Duwan froze. Every militia man near them stared. Loring's tone wasn't curious—it was accusatory, like he expected guilt.
Reed stepped forward. "He gave me tactical advice, sir. Good advice. Advice you should've listened to last night."
Duwan's heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Loring glared. "A dockworker boy? Giving orders to militia?"
"He saved our flank," Reed said simply.
Loring didn't respond—because another British volley crashed into the barricade, forcing him to duck and retreat.
But Duwan saw the change.
The Captain's eyes weren't accusing anymore.
They were calculating.
Evaluating.
A seed had been planted.
By early afternoon, the British marines finally retreated to their boats. They hadn't been wiped out—not even close—but they'd been taught a hard lesson.
The militia cheered weakly. Some cried. Some sank to the ground, exhausted.
Duwan leaned against a crate, trembling as the adrenaline drained from him.
Reed approached quietly.
"You kept your head," he said. "Can't say that for half the men here."
Duwan managed a small nod.
Reed added, voice low, "Loring's not done with you. He's stubborn, but he's no fool. He knows what you did."
"What's he going to do?" Duwan asked.
Reed shrugged. "Hard to say. Might ignore it. Might use it. Depends how tomorrow goes."
"Tomorrow?"
Reed looked out at the bay. More ships were gathering at the horizon.
"Today was just the opening act," he said. "The real fight's coming."
Duwan felt a chill crawl up his spine.
He thought he'd proved himself.
But this was only the beginning.
He wasn't sure if that was exciting—or terrifying.
Maybe both.