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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Haunted Fort
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“Turtle Island.” Frank proposed that they visit the English hermit and have a look at his fort painting.
Chet wanted to go with his friends, but finally decided to work on his painting. The trio were about to separate when they saw Ronnie Rush setting up his easel near the main path.
At once the Bayporters hurried over. Joe asked bluntly, “Ronnie, we're missing a photostat of an old map. Have you seen it around?”
The student bit his lip. “Map? Why ask me? If I had, it'd be my business anyway.”
“This one happens to be our business,” Joe retorted. “You seem to be pretty good at spying. Maybe you saw the person who knocked me out, broke into our luggage, and stole the map.”
Ronnie's face reddened, but he merely blustered, “I—I didn't see anybody. What's so special about an old map?”
“It's of Fort Senandaga,” Joe said.
Ronnie gave a perceptible start, but at once took up his palette and brush. “Stop bothering me. I've got to finish my picture.”
“Your prize-winning one?” Chet asked airily.
“A lot you know about art, fatso!” Ronnie muttered.
The three boys turned away. “I'll show him,” Chet vowed.
Joe grinned. “The brush is mightier than the sword!”
“Anyhow,” Frank said, “we got a rise out of Ronnie about the map, though we still can't be sure he took it.”
“Yes,” Joe said, “but he sure didn't like our questions.”
The Hardys got directions to Turtle Island from Uncle Jim, and permission to use his own canoe, then hurried to the boathouse. They lifted the handsome red wooden craft from its berth into the water. Joe settled himself in the bow, and Frank in the stern, then they paddled off.
Bright white sails were visible downlake as they glided across the sun-speckled water. Here and there a motorboat sped along. The canoe traced a shimmering line over the surface as Frank steered toward a group of small islands a mile out.
“There's Turtle Island,” Joe said presently, spotting a wooded hump of land straight ahead where a cabin of stone and log was partially visible.
Coasting between two large, jutting rocks, Frank steered the canoe onto a sandy strip. Nearby lay a weatherbeaten rowboat. Joe jumped out and pulled in their craft. Suddenly they heard a ferocious barking, then a flurry in the bushes, and a huge German shepherd dog appeared.
“Look out!” Frank cried.
The dog bared his teeth threateningly. Growling, he crouched as if to spring. The Hardys darted backward.
“Basker!” shouted a deep voice. “Hold, boy!”
The dog subsided instantly as a tall, sunburned man in a brown tweed suit emerged from the brush. Frank and Joe relaxed as he stroked the panting animal. The tall man peered at them beneath bushy eyebrows and greeted them in a British accent.
“Hello there!” he said cordially. “Terribly sorry about Basker—he's not used to seeing many people out here.” He extended his hand. “Lloyd Everett's my name.”
The boys introduced themselves, thinking Everett unusually well-dressed for a hermit. They told him why they had come. He agreed to let the Hardys inspect his Prisoner-Painter picture and led them toward the cabin.
“Dare say you chaps have had wind of that French gold-chain legend,” he remarked. “I don't take any stock in it myself—it's false, like most of the past French claims about Fort Royal.”
“Fort Royal?” Joe repeated.
Everett nodded. “Senandaga is its Indian name, but it's properly called Fort Royal, named by its last holder during the French-English campaigns, the great Lord Craig, my ancestor.”
Remembering the French sculptor's account of the fort, Frank glanced at Joe.
In the simply furnished but comfortable living room, Everett lifted down the painting from its place over the fireplace. Frank took out a pocket magnifying glass and studied it closely. The view was painted as if from below the ramparts at Crown Lake's edge.
“A fine rendition,” the Englishman remarked. “I don't generally collect art, but since I'm interested in the historical aspects of Fort Royal, I persuaded Mr. Davenport to sell it to me a few years back.”
While Joe scrutinized the picture, Frank asked if it were true that French soldiers had been the last on the fort's ramparts.
“Nonsense! Sheer nonsense! Who told you that?” Everett demanded.
When Frank mentioned the Millwood sculptor, the hermit clutched his hair.
“Blast it! A Frenchman! What else?” Striding angrily over to a small cork board, he plucked out seven darts. In rapid order he pitched them at the board.
“This Follette told you a pack of lies about Chambord, no doubt,” Everett growled. He did not pause for a response and proceeded to relate how Lord Craig had taken Senandaga. The French had apparently mismanaged their cannon defense and fled before Craig's forces.
When Joe mentioned the story of the English having stolen the
chaîne d'or,
Everett angrily plucked the darts from the board.
“As a descendant of Lord Craig, I shall not tolerate such lies. Here!” He handed the boys a small book. Its title was
The True Story of Fort Royal.
“Read this—you may keep it,” he said. “I wrote the book myself when I first moved here to my island retreat.”
The Hardys thanked him, intrigued by his differing account of the battle. The boys studied the Senandaga painting again. Suddenly Frank noticed a slight irregularity in a corner brush stroke.
“Joe, let me have the magnifier!”
Excited, he held the glass over the area. But he looked up in disappointment. “It's just a scratch.”
Nothing else unusual was detected in the painting. The brothers made a note of the location of two soldiers standing below the ramparts. They thanked the Englishman as he walked back with them to the canoe.
“Wish you boys luck, of course,” said Everett. “Take my advice—the so-called
chaîne d'or
doesn't exist. Just another of many French exaggerations.” He added that he rarely crossed to the mainland except to buy provisions. He had not left the island in a month.
The Hardys waved as they pushed off. “Cheerio!” called Everett. “Be sure to read my book!”
Joe was dejected. “That painting was another lost hope. I guess all we can do now is search the fort itself for the chain. If there is one!”
“We also have the job of tracking down the thieves and stolen pictures,” Frank said. “By the way, Everett told us he hadn't been off the island for a month. But his rowboat was wet and muddy—and it hasn't rained for days!”
Joe remembered seeing oars in the boat also. Was the recluse lying? Did he know anything about the Millwood thefts?
“Well,” Joe quipped, “we could always take a new case: Who
were
the last holders of Fort Senandaga—I mean, Fort Royal!”
“Or Fort du Lac!” Frank smiled, shifting his paddle to the right.
Smoothly, the brothers stroked forward. They were halfway to shore when Joe first noticed water around his feet.
“Frank! We're taking in water!”
Ceasing to paddle, Joe slid back carefully to locate the leak. “I can't find it!” he cried out.
Frank quickly pulled in his paddle and crept forward. But he had no sooner taken a step than he heard a cracking noise.
“Joe—this wood—”
With a splintering noise, the section of flooring beneath Frank's left foot gave way, entrapping his leg. Water poured in as the sinking canoe capsized.
The lake surface closed over the Hardys!
CHAPTER X
Mysterious Flag
COLD stinging water coursed through Joe's mouth and nose as he sank beneath the surface. He could see the shadow of the capsized canoe above.
Shooting up for air, he immediately plunged beneath again.
With a mighty yank he freed Frank's leg from the hull, and both boys were soon hugging the splintered boat.
“Are—are you all right?” Joe gasped.
Frank coughed for several moments before answering. “Yes, except my leg's a bit sore. I don't get it, Joe. This canoe is practically new.”
As the Hardys signaled an approaching motorboat, Joe noticed something on the canoe's hull. “Frank, look!”
Joe pointed to a wide crusted hole where Frank's leg had gone through, then noticed several smaller holes edged with a painted paste.
“This canoe was sabotaged!” he panted, tread ing water. “Somebody must have cut these holes, then used a sealer and paint! Whoever did it knew that it would just be a matter of time before water—or we—went through.”
The motorboat, manned by a man and his wife, pulled abreast of the stranded sleuths and helped them aboard. With the canoe in tow, they were soon on their way back to Millwood. Frank pulled wet book from the pocket of his slacks.
The True Story of Fort Royal
was soaked but safe!
At the school dock the Hardys thanked their rescuers and hurried across the grass. Several students eyed the water-soaked boys curiously. Chet and his uncle spotted them and came rushing up. The two were mystified and worried upon hearing of the boat incident.
“Somebody must have been hoping you'd use my canoe,” the instructor said grimly.
“You mean the trap was intended for Frank and Joe,” Chet finished. “And maybe me too. No place is safe around here!”
As the Hardys changed into dry clothes they told of their visit to Lloyd Everett. Uncle Jim grinned. “He takes that battle as seriously as René Follette and Mr. Davenport.”
“And how!” Frank looked thoughtful. “He's friendly enough-doesn't look or act much like a hermit.”
During a late lunch the three boys and Uncle Jim discussed possible suspects in the canoe episode. Ronnie Rush? The short thief? The gallery prowler?
Joe noticed that Chet was staring into space and said, “You decided what your picture's about?”
Chet grinned good-naturedly. “Okay, mind reader, I have. But you'll have to wait and see.”
“Is your entry a still life, Chet?” Frank asked.
“Yes. A moving still life!”
The others groaned at the pun.
They were just leaving the kitchen when the art patron stormed out of his study, swinging his cane. A magazine was clutched in his hand.
“Confound him! That fogbound, silky-voiced, boiled shirt! That honey-dewed melonhead—”
“Now what?” murmured Chet.
Mr. Davenport was finally persuaded to calm down and explain. “Just look at this!” he directed, opening the magazine and pointing to a paragraph which read:
“In the coming days, it will be my consummate pleasure to review the Millwood Art Exhibit, the annual artistic joke of the region. The public would better spend its time at nearby Fort Senandaga than risk dying of laughter at the ‘wood' painted at the Davenport
‘mill.' ”
Frank looked up in disgust. “This was written by Chauncey Gilman.”
Mr. Davenport said that the critic himself had mailed him the magazine. As soon as possible the Hardys changed the subject. The boys told the patron of their unsuccessful study of Everett's fort painting, then of the canoe incident.
The Southerner, who had been tapping his cane rapidly on the floor, suddenly stopped. To the others' amazement, he announced, “There's one more painting. It's in my attic.”
“What?” cried Joe.
“I declare, it slipped my mind,” said the art patron. “Guess because it's the one work by Jason I never did like. Style's different from all the others, so I just plumb hid it.”
“May we see it?” Frank asked quickly.
“Might as well.” Mr. Davenport led the excited group to the third floor and into a dim alcove. There he removed a dust-covered canvas from a closet and set it on an antique table. The boys studied it closely with the magnifier.
“This is a contrast to the other fort paintings,” Frank remarked. “It's all done in blacks, grays, and pale yellows. The storm clouds over the fort are ghostlike.”
“Indeed they are,” said Mr. Davenport. “I don't know what got into Jason.”
Frank examined the back of the picture. He pointed to one corner, where a faded date was scrawled in a wavering hand: April 1, 1865.
“That was just before the Civil War ended,” said Uncle Jim.
Again the boys scrutinized the gloomy scene. The artist's initials were as usual in the lower corner, but were fainter than in the other paintings. Frank's mind was racing. Why had the Prisoner-Painter changed to such a somber style?
Just then Mr. Davenport looked at his watch. “I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me,” he said. “Expecting the carpenter any minute. He's working on a project for me.” A mischievous twinkle came into the man's eyes, and as they went downstairs, he chuckled softly. His visitors were curious, but he offered no explanation.
“Let's try the fort again,” urged Joe. “Right now.”
The Millwood owner insisted they borrow his limousine. “Alex isn't here today, so I won't need it.” He handed them the car keys.
Outside, Uncle Jim excused himself to return to his students. Chet decided to stick with his painting. “I'll keep an eye on Ronnie Rush,” he promised.
The fort map in Joe's pocket, the brothers headed for the mansion garage. On the way, they passed a tall, bearded man at an easel set up on a knoll. The Hardys recognized Myles Warren, who ran the Cedar Sport Shop.
“Hi,” said Joe. “You must be one of the weekend painters, only this is Wednesday.”
“Yes,” the man said pleasantly. “I'm pushing to finish my picture for the exhibit.”

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