The Haunted Fort (5 page)

As they drove ahead through overgrown woods, the elderly Southerner spoke proudly of Fort Senandaga's history. He explained that little was known of the one battle fought there between the British and French.

“There's dispute till this day about its outcome,” he went on, “and which side was the last to leave the fort. That's probably why some folks believe Senandaga is haunted—ghosts of soldiers from both forces still fighting, no doubt.” He added, “Someday I aim to have that fort fully restored.”

Chet asked if the public often visited the site at other times besides Senandaga Day. Davenport's face turned livid and his eyes blazed. “The—the public!” he sputtered, sitting up and thumping his cane on the floor. Chet sat petrified until his uncle put a warning finger to his lips and smoothly changed the subject.

Alex parked in a small clearing and everyone got out. The chauffeur stayed to guard the car. Mr. Davenport, his composure restored, led the others to a grass bluff. “There she is!”

The entire lake could be seen, dotted in the distance with islands like scrubby green battle-ships. To the boys' left, up a gentle slope, rose the stone fort, an expansive star-shaped ruin surrounded by a shallow ditch, overgrown with brush. Although much of the masonry was crumbling, all the walls were at least partially intact.

As they walked toward the ramparts, Chet's uncle pulled the boys aside and accounted for his employer's sudden outburst.

“I guess I should have warned you,” he said, chuckling. “There are two things you should never mention in Mr. Davenport's presence. One is admitting the public to his fort—he has a great fear that someone will get careless wandering around the ruins and be injured. The other is Chauncey Gilman.”

“Chauncey Gilman? Who is he?” Joe asked.

Before Uncle Jim could answer, Mr. Davenport summoned them all down the steep counterscarp, or exterior slope of the ditch. As they proceeded, the elderly man talked excitedly.

“Good walls, these,” he pointed out, his voice echoing upward. “The man who drew up the plans for Senandaga followed the star-shaped design made famous by Marshall Sebastian de Vauban, military engineer for Louis XIV. Genius—sheer genius!” he added as they came to a wide-angled turn in the towering wall. “A century later my ancestor was imprisoned here.”

Frank and Joe marveled at the imposing defense the fort must have provided. “How could any army capture a place like Senandaga?” Joe asked.

“Not without much bloodshed,” the millionaire acknowledged. “A man like Vauban could have succeeded, though. Long before Chambord built Senandaga, Vauban devised a parallel trench system for assaulting forts.” He explained how attacking armies in Europe had got nearer and nearer to fort walls by digging one parallel trench, then zigzagging ahead to dig another, and so on.

“Boy, what terrific strategy!” Frank said.

“Brilliant—brilliant,” Mr. Davenport agreed. “The Marquis de Chambord, by the way, was a great admirer of Vauban's achievements.”

Chet glanced out at the peaceful lake, which once was the scene of warring canoes or attacking fleets. “It doesn't
seem
haunted,” he whispered to the Hardys.

Frank was about to answer when a rumbling sound came from above. Looking up, he cried out:

“Watch out! The wall!”

A huge section of crumbling gray masonry collapsed in a cloud of dust and came toppling downward!

THE crumbling wall broke into a spreading, plunging landslide.

“Quick!” Frank shouted.

Instantly he pulled Mr. Davenport to safety while the others leaped from the path of the rocky avalanche.

When the danger was past, Frank saw that Mr. Davenport was holding his hand to his chest and breathing hard. “Are you all right, sir?”

The art patron shook his head but said nothing. His face was pale and he hung onto the boy for support. Frank turned to the others. “I think we'd better get him to a doctor!”

They quickly returned to the car. Alex drove them immediately to Mr. Davenport's physician in Cedartown. To everyone's relief, an examination showed that there was nothing seriously wrong.

“Just see that you get plenty of rest,” the young doctor directed, “and stay away from dangerous ruins!”

As the limousine headed back to Millwood, the millionaire, looking somewhat better, pursed his lips and grumbled. “No sooner get to visit my own fort than it has to fall down on me. I can't understand it—Senandaga rock's not likely to give way like that.”

Joe and Frank shared a frightening thought: Had the masonry been
pushed
down?

“You take care of yourself, Mr. Davenport.” Joe smiled. “Frank, Chet, and I are up here to earn our keep as detectives. We'll investigate the fort and keep you posted.”

All three boys were eager for a second crack at Senandaga. Was a gold chain made by order of the Marquis de Chambord hidden somewhere beneath its ruins? If so, would they be able to beat the thief, or thieves, in finding the Prisoner-Painter's clue?

During a late lunch the boys asked Uncle Jim about Chauncey Gilman, the man for whom Mr. Davenport apparently had a violent dislike.

“Gilman lives across the lake,” he replied. “He's wealthy—inherited a lot—and is an art critic. Writes a column for the local paper.”

Uncle Jim also explained that Gilman had bought a fort painting years ago from the Millwood philanthropist. “Mr. Davenport has regretted it ever since.”

He explained that the critic, a failure as an artist himself, had grown extremely harsh in his published statements about the school. “He's not a very pleasant fellow,” Jim added. “You'll probably run into him here on Senandaga Day.”

When they had finished eating, the Hardys called the local police and learned that the stolen sedan used by the antique-shop thief had been found abandoned off a highway outside Cedartown. “Maybe he's gone into hiding nearby,” Frank conjectured. “We'll have to keep a sharp lookout.”

The boys went to tell Mr. Davenport about the theft. He was disturbed to learn of the stolen frame. “If I'd known it was at the shop, I would've bought it,” he fumed.

The art patron then opened a small safe and took out a photostat. It was a copy of an old, detailed map of Fort Senandaga, labeled in script, which Mr. Davenport said the boys could borrow.

“This should be a big help when we begin combing the ruins for some clue to the treasure,” said Frank, pocketing the map.

At Chet's urging, the Hardys agreed to attend a studio oil-painting class that afternoon. “You sleuths can still keep your eyes open,” said the plump youth.

Joe eyed him suspiciously. “Chet Morton, I sense you've got an ulterior motive.”

Chet grinned widely, but said nothing.

Uncle Jim welcomed the three boys to the cool, stone-walled room in which the class was held. Here, long, high windows let in ample daylight.

“I'll just watch,” said Frank.

“Me too.” Joe grinned. “We'll leave the brush-work to Chet.”

The stout boy obtained an easel and the necessary art material, and chose a spot at the back of the room.

Ronnie Rush stood at an easel in front of Chet. He turned around and smirked. “You have talent?”

“I'll soon find out,” Chet replied as the Hardys strolled over.

On impulse Joe asked, “Say, Ronnie, you use much of that alizarin crimson?”

Ronnie looked surprised. “Sure. Everybody does.”

“In painting, that is?” Joe asked pointedly.

Ronnie stared in bewilderment. “Of course. Why?”

“Oh, just curious.”

Jim Kenyon now came over to show his nephew about blending colors and brush techniques.

When he had moved away, Frank murmured to his brother, “Ronnie didn't act like he had anything to do with that cartridge shell.”

Joe nodded. “I'd still like to find out why he's so resentful.”

The brothers looked at Chet. Their stout pal, completely engrossed, was wielding his brush with vigorous strokes. Joe chuckled. “Chet's really got the painting bug.”

A little later the Hardys decided to take a closer look at the fort paintings and headed for the gallery. As they approached the building, footsteps came up behind them. The boys turned to face Ronnie Rush. “I'd like to see those fort pictures,” he said petulantly.

The Hardys were nonplused. Finally Frank said, “Mr. Kenyon told us no students were allowed in the gallery now.”

Joe added, “Do you have a special interest in forts? Senandaga, for instance?”

“Oh, just the painting techniques,” Ronnie said hastily. “And why are you two so interested?”

“We're doing some research on the fort's history,” Frank replied.

“Oh. History.” Ronnie squinted. He did not seem inclined to leave, so the brothers gave up their plan for the moment and returned to the studio where Chet was still working at his easel.

“Can we see your masterpiece?” Joe asked, grinning.

“Oh, no, fellows,” Chet replied earnestly, waving them off. “Not yet.”

After supper Frank said, “We ought to try another tack. I vote we pay a visit to Mr. Davenport's enemy.”

Chet's eyes widened. “Chauncey Gilman?”

“Yes. After all, he owns a fort painting.”

Joe was enthusiastic. “Maybe Gilman himself has information about the gold chain.”

Taking Chet's jalopy, the three were soon heading north along the west shore of the lake, an area lined with tourist homes. Farther on, imposing lakeside mansions came into view, and in another twenty minutes they pulled into a sloping gravel driveway. A chain-hung sign along the side read: CHAUNCEY GILMAN, ESQ. Atop the rise stood a handsome Tudor-style house overlooking the lake.

“What a setup!” Chet whistled as he parked.

From a shrubbed terrace at the rear, a plump, wavy-haired man arose from a lounge chair. He stared in disapproval at the vehicle and its smoking exhaust, then at the boys as they got out.

The Bayporters had never seen a man quite so elegantly attired. He wore a green velvet jacket, striped trousers, and white cravat.

“Are you sure you're at the right address?” he droned nasally, removing his glasses.

“Mr. Gilman?” Frank inquired.

“The same.”

Frank introduced himself and the others, explaining they were vacationing at Crown Lake and hoped to see his fort painting.

“Are you one of those
Millwood
students?” the critic asked disdainfully.

“Not exactly,” Joe replied.

“Very well.” Gilman shrugged and ushered the boys across the terrace toward a back door.

“Real friendly type,” Joe whispered to the others.

Inside, the critic led them through elaborately furnished rooms, then up winding stairs into a large hall. To one side was an arched doorway.

“My own lake-view dining room,” he announced, leading them past a suit of armor and around a long table on which lay a large dictionary. On the far wall he gestured toward a painting.

The canvas, not in the original frame, showed a distant twilight view of Fort Senandaga, with a thorn apple tree in the foreground. The boys noticed that the scene had a three-dimensional effect.

“A rather good effort,” Gilman intoned grudgingly. “Acquired from a most misguided man, I might add. Fine impasto, don't you think?”

“Er—exquisite,” Chet replied, receiving amazed looks from both Hardys. He bit off a smile and wondered what “impasto” meant. “Sounds like a salad,” he thought.

The critic turned to Frank and Joe. “No doubt,” he went on condescendingly, “you'll want to see the general's other paintings at that so-called art school.” He sniggered with relish. “I'll be paying my annual visit there to the students' exhibition, and pass judgment on the—er—works of those amateur juveniles—a most amusing task!”

Chet had edged over to the large dictionary. He would get one up on the Hardys, and at the same time not feel so stupid about “impasto.”

Frank observed their stout friend from the corner of his eye, but made no move to give him away. Chet picked up the book and leafed through it, backing toward the window for better light.

Joe, meanwhile, could not resist asking Gilman, “Do
you
paint?”

The plump man looked out the window, his hands behind his back. “I am, first and foremost, a critic,” he declared haughtily, “and widely known by the elite of the artistic world. I—”

The Hardys and Gilman jumped and wheeled about. On the floor lay the suit of armor. Standing over it was Chet, his face flaming red. “S-sorry,” he stammered. “I backed right into it.” Quickly he put the dictionary on the table.

“Studying too hard?” Frank grinned as he helped right the knight figure. “No damage, sir.”

The critic raised his eyes to the ceiling. “My nerves!”

Chet sheepishly placed the dictionary on the table and joined the brothers as they studied the fort painting.
“Impasto,”
muttered the plump boy, “is the thick application of pigment to a canvas or panel, for your information.”

“Okay, professor.” Joe chuckled.

They peered closely at the picture's surface, trying to detect some kind of telltale marks in the composition. From several strategic questions, the Hardys gathered that Gilman knew nothing of any clue to the
chaîne d'or.

Finally, the critic coughed meaningfully. “If you don't mind,” he said, “I
must
be getting to work on an important critique.”