The probing advance was quickly recorded in the army reports.
The entry was brief, restrained in tone—no more than a single line noting that British forces conducted a reconnaissance movement along the coastal direction before withdrawing. On paper, it meant little.
Within the command structure, however, its significance went far beyond the words themselves.
Because it verified one thing—
The logic behind the enemy's decisions was beginning to reveal itself.
Nathanael Greene did not mention his son in any public setting.
This was not concealment so much as instinctive caution. In wartime, a young man who appeared too perceptive without sufficient protection quickly became a target.
Still, from that day on, Nathan Carter was permitted to sit at the edge of the camp and observe portions of officers' meetings.
Not as a formal participant.With no right to speak.Not even trusted with a map.
But he could listen.
And for someone who had truly studied history, listening mattered far more than speaking.
The meetings were held inside a hastily erected tent.
The table was assembled from rough planks. Maps were weighed down with stones. Mud stains still marked the corners, left uncleaned. Officers stood crowded around, their voices low but urgent.
They were discussing the southern situation.
"The British won't remain in the North indefinitely," one officer said. "They lack the patience."
"But the South is vast and sparsely settled," another countered. "Supply lines would be stretched too thin. The risk is enormous."
Nathan stood quietly to the side, his gaze fixed on the crude map.
It wasn't a good map.The scale was distorted.Terrain markings were incomplete.
Yet in his mind, another version overlaid it automatically.
Not a map of the future, but one built from books, papers, and archival reconstructions he had studied again and again—the underlying logic of the Southern Theater.
He listened to the officers argue, while doing something else entirely:
Identifying what they had not yet realized.
It did not take long.
They were still debating whether cities must be held, whether decisive engagements should be sought.
The real issue was something else entirely.
The British were not seeking cities.
They were seeking a decisive battle.
A single engagement that could shatter the Continental Army's core.
Nathan's fingers tightened slightly.
This was the central trap of the Southern Campaign.
History had already proven it—once.
When the meeting ended, Nathanael Greene did not leave immediately.
He remained before the map, staring at the loosely marked southern regions, his brow never quite smoothing.
Nathan did not speak at once.
He knew better than to interrupt a general in thought.
Only when the tent was empty, with just father and son remaining, did Greene ask quietly,
"What do you think?"
The tone was calm. There was no avoidance.
It was the second time.
The first had been about British patrols.The second concerned the entire southern theater.
Nathan understood that if he was wrong now, whatever trust he had gained would vanish instantly.
He did not answer right away. Instead, he asked,
"Father—what do you think the British fear most?"
Greene hadn't expected the question. He paused slightly. "Delay."
"Why?"
"Because their cost of war is higher," Greene replied without hesitation. "They need this war to end."
Nathan nodded.
"Then what do they desire most?"
Greene was silent for several seconds.
"A decisive victory."
"Exactly," Nathan said. "A victory that forces us to collapse."
He stepped closer to the map, pointing toward the southern interior.
"That's why they'll chase us. Not because this land is valuable—but because we are here."
Greene's eyes followed the movement of Nathan's hand.
"If we continue to withdraw," Nathan went on, "they'll continue to advance. And the farther they advance, the heavier their supply burden becomes."
This was no prediction.
It was a chain of logic.
Greene did not interrupt.
"What are you suggesting?" he asked.
"We don't need to win every battle," Nathan replied. "We only need to make sure that every 'victory' costs them more than the last."
The tent fell silent.
These were not the words of a young observer.
They were the words of a commander.
Greene finally turned and looked directly at his son.
"Do you know what you're implying?" he asked.
"I do," Nathan answered. "Trading space for time."
Something shifted in Greene's expression.
Not surprise—but the gravity of a nerve being struck.
"Many will call that retreat," Greene said.
"History won't," Nathan replied calmly. "But history won't fight this war for us either."
For a brief moment, the corner of Greene's mouth moved—almost imperceptibly.
He did not smile.
But he remembered.
That night, Greene wrote a letter.
Not a formal report to Congress, but a private message.
The recipient was singular.
George Washington.
Nathan's name did not appear in it.
Only one fact was stated:
That strategy in the southern theater should shift—from holding key positions to exhausting the enemy's operational tempo.
The letter was filed without attribution.
Washington's reply contained only one sentence:
"If you are certain this course is viable, then proceed."
It was authorization at the highest level.
Several days later, Greene summoned Nathan again.
This time, he did not open with a question.
"I need you to go south with me," he said.
Nathan's heart struck hard in his chest.
He knew exactly what that meant.
The South would no longer be an abstract exercise on paper. It was a place where men died, where campaigns failed, where history often forgot.
"I'm not asking you to command," Greene added. "You're not qualified for that."
There was no malice in the words.
Only fact.
"You'll accompany me," he said. "Watch. Listen. Remember."
Nathan nodded.
That was precisely what he needed.
Because real change never begins with authority.
It begins with being allowed to stand at the edge of the battlefield.
That night, sitting outside the tent, Nathan reviewed the timeline one detail at a time.
The Southern Campaign had not yet fully begun.British strategy had not fully shifted.Key figures were still on the move.
Everything remained within a window of intervention.
As he stared at the dim glow of distant campfires, one realization settled clearly in his mind:
He was no longer merely someone who knew history.
He was becoming part of it.
And from here on, prediction would no longer be enough.
He would have to prove—again and again—that he deserved to remain.