The column moving south advanced at a measured pace.
Not because the roads were difficult, but because Nathanael Greene had chosen to slow it deliberately. At multiple junctions, the force changed direction again and again. Supply wagons were divided into smaller groups, sometimes merging, sometimes separating. From the outside, it looked like an army without a clear destination.
The method unsettled many officers.
"General, this will erode morale.""The men need to know where we're going."
The concerns were not unreasonable.
Greene listened, but rarely responded.
Nathan Carter rode near the rear of the column on an unremarkable horse. He wore no formal officer's uniform—only the dress of an accompanying aide. No one sought his opinion.
That suited him perfectly.
Because he was watching something else.
The speed of the British response.
On the third evening, the column halted briefly at the edge of a wooded area.
The fires had barely been lit when a reconnaissance trooper was brought before Greene, tension visible on his face.
"General," the man reported, "fresh British cavalry tracks ahead—about twenty miles out. Not many, but recent."
The tent fell quiet at once.
Some officers glanced instinctively at the map. Others began to speculate aloud whether it was coincidence.
Nathan did not look up.
He was already comparing the timing in his head.
Half a day earlier than recorded in the historical accounts.
Not critical—but it meant something.
The British were more impatient than history suggested.
Greene raised a hand to silence the tent and turned to the scout.
"Numbers?"
"No more than a troop."
"Direction?"
"Along the main road, but with signs of dispersal."
Greene nodded.
He did not issue orders immediately.
Instead, he turned to Nathan.
For the first time, in front of the other officers.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Every gaze in the tent snapped toward Nathan.
The looks were not friendly.
They carried suspicion—and the unspoken question of why he was even there.
Nathan did not avoid them.
"They're not looking for our main force," he said.
Someone let out a quiet scoff.
"Then what—are they out for a ride?"
Nathan ignored the remark and continued.
"They're trying to confirm whether we're truly retreating."
The laughter stopped.
"If we continue along our current route," Nathan went on, "they'll dispatch a larger reconnaissance force before tomorrow."
"And if we change course tonight?" Greene asked.
"They'll assume we're concealing a key objective," Nathan replied. "And they'll become more aggressive."
Greene fell silent.
"And what do you suggest?"
Nathan stepped closer to the map. He didn't point to any city. He didn't name a defensive line.
He indicated a stretch of unremarkable woodland.
"Let them believe we've made a mistake."
The tent went still.
"What does that mean?" an officer asked, frowning.
"Send a small unit," Nathan said. "Make it look like a supply element has been exposed. Not large—just enough to seem worth the risk."
"That's bait," someone objected immediately. "The risk is too high."
"Yes," Nathan agreed. "But it's a risk they can't refuse."
Greene's focus sharpened.
"Why are you so certain?"
Nathan met his gaze directly.
"Because they're conditioned to seize errors," he said, "not to wait for opportunities."
This wasn't prophecy.
It was an assessment of a system.
In the end, Greene did not adopt Nathan's proposal in full.
But he chose a compromise.
A small mobile detachment was dispatched, deliberately leaving trackable signs along the forest edge, while the main force quietly adjusted its route.
By morning, the British appeared.
Not in strength, but in a fast-moving raiding detachment.
They were quick—and impatient.
By the time they realized the target was a decoy, they had already entered the Continental Army's prepared containment zone.
The fighting was brief.
Limited in scale.Limited in casualties.
It barely qualified as a battle.
But it produced a decisive result—
The British withdrew.
Not because they had been defeated.
But because they understood that further probing would only expose more of their intentions.
Afterward, the atmosphere among the officers shifted.
No one publicly admitted error. No one praised Nathan.
But as he moved along the edge of the camp, heads began to nod in acknowledgment.
That was enough.
That evening, Greene summoned Nathan to his tent.
"What you said today," he told him, "I took note of it."
Nathan did not reply.
"You're not ready to command troops," Greene continued. "But you're no longer just an observer."
He paused.
"If you offer similar judgments again," he said, "I'll place you in charge of a smaller unit."
It wasn't a promise.
It was a warning.
And an opportunity.
Nathan understood exactly what it meant.
Once responsibility began, he would be accountable for outcomes.
War did not allow a second trial.
Night deepened.
The camp grew quiet.
Nathan sat beside the fire, watching flames ripple across the blade of a knife, and realized something with absolute clarity:
He had crossed the line beyond which there was no return to safety.
From now on, every judgment he made would be treated as an act of war.
And war was never forgiving.