The Haunted Fort Part 8

"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 pa.s.sed 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."

The Hardys glanced at the canvas-a landscape in vivid greens, reds, and yellow. Warren kept his brush moving. "Tried that fishing at the north end yet?"

"No." Frank smiled. "We'll keep it in mind."

In the garage Frank slid behind the wheel of the luxurious limousine and pulled out into the road above Mill wood.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached the fort. There had been no trace of the phony detour sign.

Frank parked, and they unlocked the gate, then climbed the hill toward the ramparts. Pausing on the glacis, the boys looked at the map, then at the tracing showing the locations of figures in the pictures.

The actual shape of Senandaga was that of a square with diamond-shaped bastions at the corners of its four ramparts.

Frank pointed to a high, wedge-shaped defensive stonework which stood in front of the ditch. "That must be the demilune-the south one. There's another to the west."

They decided to begin their hunt by checking outside the fort walls and ditch. First, the Hardys walked north along the zigzagging ditch, then to the spot where the wall had fallen. They stopped to examine the rubble.

"Hey!" Joe yelled, pushing aside a rock. Underneath lay a round black object. "An old cannon ball!"

The Hardys wondered: Had it been hurled against the ancient wall to cause the collapse? They surveyed the crenelated walls of blocked stone. Although its soldiers and cannon were long gone, a forbidding, ominous silence seemed to make itself felt around the bastion.

As Frank's eyes pa.s.sed over the crumbled roofs visible above the walls, he stopped suddenly. "Joe, look!"

Waving atop a flagpole on the southeast rampart was a white and gold flag!

"It's the flag used by the French before their revolution!" Frank exclaimed, recognizing the pattern of three white lilies. "But it wasn't here the first time we came."

"One thing is sure-it's no relic," Joe said. "Mr. Davenport didn't mention anything about a flag."

They stared at the mysterious banner, recalling the drumbeats they had heard earlier. Who had placed the old French colors over the fort?

Hastily the Hardys continued along the ditch to an area which they had marked on their tracing sheet.

They hoped to find some kind of marking or rock formation at the same spots the figures stood in the paintings.

"Over here, a little more to the right," Joe said, comparing the map and sheet. Frank noticed that freshly churned-up soil surrounded their feet.

"Joe! Somebody's been digging!"

"You're right!" Joe reached down and felt the earth.

"If the treasure was here," Frank reasoned, "we're out of luck."

They walked toward the west demilune. But halfway, Joe noticed a pillar of black smoke in the sky. It came from beyond a shadowed promontory to the north of the lake.

"Frank, that looks like a fire!"

"It is. I wonder-Joe! It's coming from Mill-wood!"

CHAPTER XI.

The Lake Monster "WE'VE got to get back!" Frank urged.

The brothers raced down the slope to the parked car and soon were streaking around the lake road leading to Millwood. The column of black smoke swirled higher and they heard sirens.

Reaching the school, Frank wheeled the limousine to the parking area and they jumped out.

"It's the boathouse!" Joe exclaimed.

Waves of intense heat rolled out from the flaming structure. The Hardys ran toward the lakeside, where a crowd watched the firemen fighting the holocaust.

The dock was already lost, and what had been canoes were smoking sh.e.l.ls on the bank. Voices echoed as spumes of water played against the blazing boathouse. Suddenly Frank detected a strong oily smell in the air.

"Kerosene!" he said. "This fire must have been set!"

The Hardys spotted Uncle Jim and Chet among the spectators back of a cordoned area near a police car. Chet was glad to see his pals.

"Was anybody hurt?" Frank asked, worried.

"Fortunately, no," Mr. Kenyon replied. "But our boat area is a complete ruin."

In an hour the fire had been extinguished. According to a student, the conflagration had apparently broken out suddenly-on the lake itself.

"Which means somebody poured a kerosene slick on the water and ignited it," Frank said.

Chet nodded solemnly. "With the wind and floating pieces of burning wood, we're lucky it didn't spread along the whole sh.o.r.e front."

By now, most of the onlookers had dispersed and the fire trucks and police car were leaving.

The Bayporters surveyed the grim, charred skeleton of the boathouse, wondering who the arsonist could have been, and what his motive was. Another attempt to discourage the Hardys from investigating Fort Senandaga?

"It wasn't Ronnie Rush who set it, anyway," Chet declared. "He was too busy making fun of my painting."

The three boys searched the burned wreckage for evidence. They found nothing but a fat, charred cork, smelling of kerosene, bobbing on the waterfront.

"A pretty slim clue," Joe muttered, stuffing the cork into his pocket. After supper they stopped in with Uncle Jim to see Mr. Davenport. He seemed inconsolable. The school's exhibit was only two days away, and the blackened ruins would detract greatly from the estate's appearance. Joe had an idea.

"We'll begin clearing away the debris first thing tomorrow, and have the lake front in good shape by Senandaga Day."

Mr. Davenport brightened, and Uncle Jim said, "That would be a big help. At least the lake residents will be able to beach their boats."

"There's one person I suspect," the art patron burst out angrily, "who would want to spoil our exhibit. A certain party down the lake."

The boys a.s.sumed he meant Chauncey Gilman, but somehow they could not picture the critic in the role of an arsonist.

The brothers then told the others about the mysterious French flag they had seen at the fort. Mr.

Davenport expressed complete bewilderment.

"A flag over Senandaga!" he exclaimed incredulously. "It must be the work of some blamed tourist! A trespa.s.ser!"

Frank doubted this, saying that even a practical joker might not go to the trouble of climbing the fence.

"Don't tell me a ghost put up that flag," Chet gulped.

Mr. Davenport shook his head. "You can get to the fort by boat, too."

The Hardys left him, wondering if the strange incident was part of the puzzle they were trying to solve.

Directly after breakfast the boys plunged into the task of cleaning up the dock site. With axes and wheelbarrows, charred wood was cut up and carted away, as well as burned shrubbery. Up to their waists in water, Frank and Joe hewed down the remaining boathouse supports and dock stakes.

"Whew!" Chet exclaimed as noontime approached. "I feel as though I'd been building a fort."

Ronnie Rush came up just then and looked on smugly. "Want to help?" Joe asked him.

"My time is too valuable," Ronnie said, and sauntered off.

"He may not have burned the docks, but he sure burns me up!" Chet muttered.

At last the boys finished their project, having set up bright buoys offsh.o.r.e. After lunch they were summoned to Cedartown Police Headquarters, where the chief handed them a photograph. "Recognize him?"

"The picture and frame thief!" Joe exclaimed.

"His name's Adrian Copier," the chief informed them, adding that the man had a long criminal record as a thief, especially of art objects.

There was no indication of his being an arsonist.

"I wonder if he's the brains behind the thefts at Millwood," Frank said, "or if he's working for a higher-up."

The chief shrugged. "Copier seems to be as elusive as he is clever. But I'll keep men on the lookout."

Back at the school, the boys discussed their future trips to the fort. "The Queen's still laid up and we can't keep borrowing the limousine," said Frank. "A canoe would be fine-but the fire took care of that."

"Guess we'll have to rent a boat," Joe said.

When Mr. Davenport heard of the boys' quandary, he called them into his study.

"We can't have you detectives grounded," he said. "How would you like to use a Colonial bateau?"

"A what?" Chet asked.

He smiled. "A bateau was a boat used during the French and Indian campaigns." Mr. Davenport explained that the wooden craft, resembling a modern dory, had been used by the English as well as the French for carrying supplies and for scouting. The original bateaux were up to forty-five feet long; later, they varied in length.

"Sounds great!" Joe broke in. "But where can we get a bateau?"

"My carpenter, George Ashbach, has a keen interest in historical boats. Out of curiosity, he put together a bateau last year. Doesn't use it much, but I understand it's navigable. I'm sure he'd be glad to let you boys borrow it."

"Super!" Chet exclaimed.

The elderly Southerner beamed. "Mr. Ashbach will be finishing up-my-er-job today. I'll talk to him."

"Are you building something?" Joe asked.

A devilish gleam sparkled in the patron's eyes. He smiled, but gave no answer.

That evening, as dusk fell, the boys sat on the bank, wondering whether they would hear the eerie drumbeats again.

"I'd like to know if that French flag was lowered at sundown," Joe commented.

"By the same ghost, maybe," Frank said, grinning.

Chet was not amused. "Aw, fellows!" He shivered. "Can't we talk about something-er-cheerful?"

The only sound was lapping water, ruffled by a chilly breeze. Chet glanced out over the lake to the grayish islands, huddled like waiting phantom ships. Dim lights were visible across the water, but to the south, where the fort lay, all was black.

Suddenly Chet stiffened. Out on the water, about fifty yards from where the boys sat, something broke the surface, then disappeared!

Rooted to his place, Chet blinked and looked again, his eyes as big as half dollars.

"What's the matter?" Joe asked. "Do you-?"

He broke off with a gasp as all three stared in disbelief.

A speck of white showed on the dark water. Then an immense, curved black shadow loomed larger and larger, gliding, waving toward them.

Chet stuttered with fear as the shadow drew near. It had a long neck and a huge glistening head, gaping jaws and long sharp teeth!