The next morning, the docks were restless.
Men whispered about British ships sighted farther up the Bay. Militia patrols passed more frequently. Workers hurried with tense, jerky movements—everyone knew something was coming, but no one wanted to be the first to say it out loud.
Duwan arrived early, hoping to keep a low profile after yesterday's attention. But Baltimore in 1812 wasn't a forgiving place for someone with dark skin, no matter how much he tried to blend in.
He was rolling a barrel toward the warehouse when a white dockhand blocked his path. The man spat tobacco on the ground near Duwan's foot.
"Move slower and you'll be workin' with the women," the man sneered. "Assumin' you can even count as a man."
A couple others chuckled.
Duwan kept his gaze down. "Just doin' my job, sir."
"Sir?" the man barked a laugh. "Hear that, boys? He thinks he's talkin' to his owner."
Duwan stiffened. Josiah, helping nearby, shot him a wide-eyed warning look.
The man stepped closer, the sour smell of sweat and ale hitting Duwan's nose. "You best keep that clever mouth shut. I don't care what Reed said about you yesterday. Militia or not, you still ain't worth spit."
Anger flared. Hot. Dangerous.
Back home, you'd walk away. Here? He could get you whipped…or worse.
Duwan forced himself to breathe. "I—I didn't mean disrespect."
"Course you didn't," the man said mockingly. "Boys like you don't mean nothin'. Just remember your place."
He shoved the barrel hard so it slammed into Duwan's shin before walking off laughing.
Pain shot up Duwan's leg, but he clenched his teeth. He wanted to yell. To shove back. To demand respect.
But he had to survive this world first.
Josiah hurried over. "Nathan! You alright?"
"Yeah," Duwan muttered through clenched teeth. "Just bruised."
Josiah lowered his voice. "Don't talk back to men like him. They think they can do anything. And mostly…they can."
Duwan nodded, but his jaw remained tight.
Power. That's what separates us. And if I ever want real power here, I need to earn it.
Later, during the midday rest, workers lounged against crates or sat in what little shade the docks offered. Josiah tore at a stale piece of bread. Duwan pretended to eat his, but his stomach was twisted.
His eyes drifted toward the harbor.
Baltimore's waters glimmered under a pale sky. Ships rocked gently, ropes creaking. Farther out, long shadows hinted at the possibility of British sails just beyond sight.
Tomorrow.
He could feel it. The tension. The fear. The pattern matched too well with what he knew from history.
The first real attack would come tomorrow.
He needed to think. To prepare. To help—if he could.
He glanced around. Workers were distracted. No one was watching him closely.
He reached into Nathan's pocket and pulled out a small scrap of charcoal and a folded piece of rough paper—likely used for tallying crates. The perfect camouflage.
He crouched behind a stack of barrels and began sketching quickly.
Not a full battle map—too suspicious. Just lines, marks, angles.
Strategy disguised as dock tallies.
He drew:
The shape of the harbor
Landing points British marines preferred
Likely routes through Fell's Point
The placement of local militia batteries
Where the militia should position themselves instead
He wrote quick notes, shorthand he prayed would look like messy numbers rather than military predictions.
Key Insight 1: Block the waterfront street to force British marines into narrow alleys.
British troops hated fighting in cramped spaces—muskets were harder to use, formations broke, and local fighters had an advantage.
Key Insight 2: Move two cannons from the customs house to the upper dockline.
History had shown that Baltimore often mispositioned its guns early in the war. Fixing that mistake could save the harbor.
Key Insight 3: Use the shipyard as cover.
Piles of timber, thick planks, and half-built hulls could create a perfect ambush zone.
He wrote one final line at the bottom:
If militia fall back to the warehouse district, they create a kill box. High chance of victory.
He stared at the page.
It was a simple plan. Quick. Practical. The exact kind of thinking militia officers desperately lacked.
It could make all the difference.
But it also made him dangerous. Suspicious. A Black teen claiming to know battle strategy? Most men would laugh him off—or accuse him of something worse.
Still… someone had to see this. Someone who wouldn't dismiss it.
Someone like Sergeant Reed.
A shadow fell across him.
Duwan froze, stuffing the paper to his chest.
Mr. Cooper stood over him. "What're you scribblin', boy?"
Duwan's pulse slammed. "Just…crate numbers, sir."
Cooper held out a hand. "Let me see."
Panic surged.
If Cooper read the strategy, he'd think Duwan was mad—or spying. Or he'd show others. It could ruin everything.
Think. Think fast.
Duwan forced a clumsy grin. "It's wrong, sir. I—I messed up the count. Let me redo it."
Cooper squinted. Suspicious. But after a long moment, he snorted.
"Don't waste paper. Just tell me the tally."
Duwan made up a number. "Fourteen crates of tar. Six barrels of pitch."
Cooper nodded. "Good. Now get up. Break's over."
As he walked away, Duwan released a shaky breath.
That was close. Too close.
He folded the paper tightly and tucked it under the inner lining of Nathan's shirt.
Tomorrow, he'd have to find Reed. Give him the plan. Somehow.
Josiah jogged over, face flushed. "Nathan! You hear? Folks say the British ships turned north this morning. They might hit us by dawn!"
Duwan looked out over the harbor.
He felt the weight of the folded paper against his chest.
Tomorrow.
Baltimore would fight.
And maybe—a scared, time-lost sixteen-year-old boy with a head full of history—could help them win.