Isaiah did not sleep that night.
The wind rattled the tent canvas like a living thing. The lantern on his desk flickered low, throwing long shadows across the maps spread before him. Montreal sat like a challenge on parchment—defended, proud, convinced that every American advance would come exactly as the British expected.
Exactly how Howard and Frasier intended to march.
Exactly how men died.
Isaiah inhaled slowly and steadied his hand.
If they refused to change the strategy…
Then he would build one inside theirs.
He began by accepting the reality:
The primary column would march down the Richelieu.
Howard and Frasier would force a frontal approach.
His brigade would be ordered to "support."
He could not change those choices.
So he would weaponize them.
Isaiah outlined the main American path in cold blue ink.
Then he circled positions just outside the primary line. Small, subtle places commanders with rigid thinking ignored. Low forest ridges. Dry ground near marshland. Sections where the British would assume Americans were too cautious to maneuver.
He wasn't planning to oppose the generals.
He was planning to enhance their plan so effectively that his brigade became indispensable.
He whispered to himself:
"If they treat me like support…
I will become the support they cannot live without."
He drafted quietly, methodically, building something sharp.
Phase One – Shadow March
His brigade marches with the main force.
Never ahead.
Never show leadership dominance.
Appear obedient.
But every night they reposition slightly off-axis, not enough to defy orders…
Just enough to:
cover blind flanks
set up forward ammunition caches
pre-measure artillery range down corridors the British wouldn't expect fire from
His men would know the land better than anyone else on the field.
Howard and Frasier wouldn't even notice…
Until they needed him.
Isaiah marked three chokepoints where the British would likely anchor defenses.
Not obvious positions.
Not the textbook choices.
But where Isaiah would have placed artillery if he were British.
He positioned his reserve artillery batteries so they could pivot in minutes, not hours.
He studied old British doctrine from memory.
"They trust terrain," Isaiah muttered. "They trust discipline. So we punish both."
His strategy:
Let the main force hit resistance.
Let British confidence rise.
Then Isaiah's artillery would smash the angles no one protected.
Supporting fire…
that suddenly determined victory.
Frasier would be forced to rely on him.
Howard would have to acknowledge his effectiveness.
And Isaiah's brigade would become the backbone of the campaign without ever disobeying an order.
Isaiah didn't just want battlefield presence.
He wanted future authority.
So he built into his plan:
casualty reduction measures for his brigade
stronger medical response units
rotating rest schedules to preserve stamina
optimized ammunition distribution
His brigade would suffer less, move faster, and remain operational longer.
When other units began bleeding strength…
His men would still be ready.
Which meant command would come to him.
Not because they respected him.
Because they needed him.
Morning came gray and cold.
Isaiah summoned his brigade commanders.
They stood around the table, studying the layered plan.
Not bold.
Not flashy.
Brilliantly practical.
Captain Baird frowned. "Sir… this positions us better than the lead columns."
"That's the point," Isaiah replied quietly. "We save them from their own plan. And we gain ground without ever challenging command."
A younger officer hesitated.
"Sir… isn't that… political?"
Isaiah looked at him.
"War always is."
A senior major—older, hardened, skeptical of Isaiah but not malicious—leaned forward.
"This protects their reputation while enhancing yours," he said very slowly. "General Frasier wins publicly. But you'll be the reason it works."
Isaiah didn't smile.
"Results speak longer than insults."
The major nodded once.
For the first time, respect—not reluctance—touched his eyes.
Orders went out.
Men drilled.
Maps memorized.
New supply caches discreetly prepared.
Forward scouts sent quietly where command hadn't bothered to look.
Isaiah walked the line as preparations unfolded.
Soldiers still whispered.
Some still doubted him.
That night, Isaiah stood at the edge of camp, looking north.
The other generals thought they had dismissed him.
Belittled him.
Reduced him to a background element in their grand plan.
But when the snow churned with marching boots…
When British artillery thundered…
When formations began to falter…
They would turn.
And Isaiah Carter's brigade would already be in place.
Ready.
Prepared.
Decisive.
He whispered to the cold air:
"You don't want me leading this campaign?"
"Fine."
"I'll save it instead."