The Watching Eyes

Glastonbury, Connecticut
April, 1778

Ambrose Clark felt the cold, sharp blade of a bayonet on the back of his neck. "Both of you, be quiet," a voice hissed in his ear. "Don't move a muscle."

Ambrose froze, his heart pounding. His twin brother John had turned and was looking at the man behind Ambrose, his mouth open slightly in shock. Beyond him, in the darkness, Ambrose could make out a small room stacked high with wooden kegs.

"Don't say a word either." The owner of the bayonet grabbed Ambrose's upper arm and shifted the blade to the side of his neck. Not hard enough to slice a layer of skin, but hard enough to send a message that he was quite serious.

Ambrose's mind raced. Was this man friend or foe? He knew John was wondering the exact same thing. Don't do anything stupid John ... like attack this guy. I like my neck. And I like my blood inside my body where it belongs. The blade had been placed directly over Ambrose's jugular vein. With one quick slice, he could be dead.

"Don't even think about doing anything rash to help your comrade here." The man did not speak loudly, but Ambrose did not doubt the seriousness of his threats. "If my blade doesn't kill, it could easily cripple." The man's voice was gruff and deep, belonging to someone older and seasoned in combat.

Ambrose looked at John, who nodded slowly at the man. How did they not hear this man get behind them? The feat seemed impossible to Ambrose. His senses had been on high alert for the past fifteen minutes as they approached the dark buildings of the Stocking gristmill and gunpowder factory. He had only walked ten feet inside the building when he was met by that voice and blade. Had he been hiding in the dark somewhere inside or outside? How did he move so quietly with not even the wooden floor beneath him creaking? More than anything Ambrose wanted to tell the man who they were and why they were there. But he had told them not to speak. His eyes drifted slowly to John who matched his steady look. Through the shadows and over his twin's shoulder he could barely make out the image of large wood and iron machinery. Ambrose took a chance and opened his mouth to speak.

"We —" The blade stung as it pressed harder into his neck, and he quickly swallowed the rest of his sentence. Ambrose felt beads of sweat run down his forehead and the slope of his nose. His tan cotton shirt dampened with perspiration. If only their brother Berty were inside with them.

"I said don't make a sound," the man hissed. "Now, when I tell you to move I want you both to walk slowly to the door you just used to get in here. Remember, this is a gunpowder factory. Don't even think about using that pistol you have tucked in your pants, young man," he said to John. "One false move with that and we could all meet our Maker in an instant. Now, move slowly and quietly." A hand waved in Ambrose's peripheral vision, and John started walking. Then Ambrose felt a nudge in his lower back.

Ambrose slowly turned and followed his brother toward the door. Of all the doors to enter this place, they had to choose the one guarded by a watchman with Indian-like skills and a sharp bayonet — who was obviously not afraid to use it first and ask questions later. They had no choice but to follow his commands. If only Ambrose had his knife. Then he could show this guy what a super sharp blade looked like. If there was one skill Ambrose had greater than most it was his ability to strike the smallest target with his knife. The ability had won him bets of skill with men twice his size and age. But it was no good wishing for it now. Ambrose stepped carefully so no sudden movements or tripping would make the blade on his neck accidentally draw blood. The floor under his feet creaked. Why hadn't they heard it when the man snuck across the boards behind them?

Ambrose exited the building behind John and stepped into the dim light of a half moon. He knew his brother felt helpless. The feel of smooth dirt was under his feet as he took a few steps forward. Large rocks trimmed garden beds that looked like they wanted to bloom. Ambrose listened to the sound of Roaring Brook trickling beside them. The large wheel that had operated the gristmill stood still, deactivated during nonworking hours. The water running over the rocks sounded like tiny voices calling to him. If only he could speak too.

* * *

Down the road, Berty Clark held the reins of the three horses belonging to him and his two younger brothers. What was taking them so long? All they had to do was find George Stocking, wake him up, and deliver the message from Colonel Sherburne. He hoped they weren't just being shy about waking someone up. Kids. You give them the freedom to do something on their own and they screw it up. But Berty decided to be patient a little while longer. Perhaps Stocking was not at home. He'd give them fifteen more minutes. If they weren't back by then, he'd wake everybody up and embarrass the twins at the same time.

* * *

"What are you doing on this property?" the voice asked.

"Finally," Ambrose and John said in unison.

"We can talk now?" Ambrose reached up slowly to touch his neck. "In that case, I respectfully ask that you remove the blade you hold so firmly on my neck." He still hadn't seen the face of his captor, and he had to fight the urge to spin around.

"Not yet," said the man. "Explain yourselves first."

"We are courier volunteers for the Connecticut Militia," John said. "We carry a special message from Colonel Sherburne for George Stocking, Senior. It's in my left pants pocket. May I get it for you?"

"No, keep your hands above your heads and proceed to that building straight ahead. Go quietly and slowly." The man nudged Ambrose a little with the blade.

Ambrose's mouth fell open. How could this man ignore such a statement? They were on official Continental Army business. His eyes met John's. Could they be in the hands of a Loyalist? How could such a person be in control of the gunpowder factory? It was late at night. Perhaps they had stumbled upon a thief.

He matched John's slow pace as he walked toward the brown building fifty feet away on the north side of the property. Every few steps he turned and looked back at Ambrose and their captor who trudged behind with his bayonet still firmly placed near Ambrose's neck.

"Knock six times," the voice ordered when they reached the...