By the time Isaiah Carter reached the frozen encampment outside Plattsburgh, the winter wind coming off Lake Champlain had teeth. White tents clustered across the field, chimneys coughing thin smoke. Men stamped their boots in the snow, breath ghosting into the air as they drilled, loaded, stacked arms, drilled again. Discipline was improving. Efficiency was sharpening. But the real battle wasn't on the field yet.
It was waiting in the command tent.
Isaiah walked the line first. He always did.
His brigade formed up at his order — three regiments, a battalion of artillery, scattered companies of riflemen. Faces watched him. White. Black. Mixed. Some curious. Some openly hostile. Some tired enough that race mattered less than survival.
He stopped in front of them, hands clasped behind his back.
"You've read the rumors," Isaiah said calmly. "You've heard what politicians say. What officers whisper. What newspapers print."
A few men stiffened.
"I'll tell you what actually matters."
He pointed north.
"Up there is an enemy who doesn't care how old we are. What color we are. Who we were before this war. He cares if we can fight. If we can hold. If we can advance."
Silence settled, tight and thick.
"I intend to make this brigade the most reliable, disciplined, and dangerous formation in this army. Not through speeches. Not through promises. Through results."
He turned his head slightly.
"No drunkenness on duty. No disorder. No marching chaos. We move as a machine or we don't move at all."
A captain opened his mouth as if to object, then shut it just as quickly when Isaiah's eyes landed on him.
"I will not beg for respect," Isaiah continued. "I will earn it. And you will earn the right to say you served here."
He paused.
"Anyone who has a problem with that can request reassignment. Today. No punishment. No resentment. But once you choose to stay…" His gaze hardened. "…you will not embarrass this brigade or this country."
No one stepped out.
Not because they all supported him.
Because some wanted to see if he would fail.
Hours later, Isaiah entered a far warmer tent lit by lanterns — the meeting chamber of three brigadier generals chosen to plan the Montreal thrust.
General Howard.
General Frasier.
And Isaiah Carter.
A map of Canada sprawled across the heavy table. Officers stood close, forming an unbroken wall of older white faces. The murmuring died as Isaiah stepped in.
No one greeted him.
Howard didn't even look up. "You're late."
"I'm on time," Isaiah answered evenly.
Howard's jaw tightened. Frasier smirked.
"We've already established the plan," Frasier said dismissively. "Your brigade will follow the primary column along the Richelieu route. Support role. Minimal engagement unless ordered." His tone made the word "support" sound like "keep out of the way."
Isaiah walked to the table without asking, eyes sweeping the map.
"Then your plan is flawed," he said quietly.
A few heads snapped toward him.
Howard straightened slowly. "Excuse me?"
Isaiah tapped the map near the river line.
"You're funneling three brigades down a single approach," he said. "British scouts will see us days out. Their artillery will control the crossings. Supply lines stretched. Winter wind directly against us. If they collapse the bridge route, we have men trapped in the cold with nowhere to maneuver."
A colonel snorted. "This isn't a lecture hall, son."
"No," Isaiah said calmly. "This is planning for whether men die in a ditch or not."
Howard leaned on the table. "And what would you suggest, Lieutenant Colonel?" He dragged out the rank, reminding everyone how young his authority was.
Isaiah did not flinch.
"Split-strength illusion column down the Richelieu to bait their reinforcement. Real pressure pushes west — here—" he pointed near a narrow entry that British command didn't expect large movement from, "—forcing them to split artillery and weakening their defensive line around Montreal. We control the river not by marching beside it…but by making them afraid of everywhere but it."
Silence.
Frasier chuckled under his breath.
"A boy strategist," he said, shaking his head. "This is why promotions are becoming a joke."
Someone muttered, "He thinks he's Napoleon."
Another officer added quietly, "He's lucky he was even let in here."
Isaiah stood still, jaw tight, but his expression did not crack.
Howard finally waved a dismissive hand. "We do not alter established strategy because someone wants to demonstrate cleverness. Your brigade will follow orders. You will execute, not theorize. Consider this meeting… an educational courtesy."
The message was clear.
You are here because politics forced us to tolerate you.
Not because they valued his mind.
When the meeting dismissed, officers pushed past him without acknowledgement. Some bumped his shoulder. Some didn't look at him at all. Frasier approached with a thin, cold smile.
"You'll march when I say march," he said quietly. "You'll shoot when I say shoot. That's the reality, Lieutenant Colonel. Learn your place before the snow teaches it for you."
Isaiah held his gaze.
"My place," he replied softly, "is wherever the army needs competence."
Frasier's smile tightened.
He walked away.
Isaiah stood alone beside the empty table.
He didn't curse.
He didn't slam anything.
He didn't storm out.
He folded the map instead, slowly, deliberately.
If they would not listen…
Then he would make himself impossible to ignore.
Outside, the cold struck him hard again, whipping his coat.
He looked north.
Toward Montreal.
Toward the men who would be counting on him, whether higher command believed in him or not.
If the other generals refused to plan properly…
Isaiah would build a strategy around them.
He would adapt, improvise, and turn their rigidity into his advantage.
He would survive them.
He would succeed despite them.
And when the snow melted and the smoke cleared…
History would remember who actually led.
Isaiah pulled his collar higher against the wind and walked back toward his brigade.
The war was about to become political combat as much as military.
And he was ready for both.