READ ALL THE MYSTERIES IN THE
HARDY BOYS ADVENTURES:
#1 Secret of the Red Arrow
#2 Mystery of the Phantom Heist
#3 The Vanishing Game
#4 Into Thin Air
#5 Peril at Granite Peak
COMING SOON:
#6 Shadows at Predator Reef
CONTENTS
Chapter 1 Flashback
Chapter 2 The Shot Heard Round Bayport
Chapter 3 Rewriting History
Chapter 4 The Dead Don
Chapter 5 British Invasion
Chapter 6 Below Deck
Chapter 7 Off-Limits
Chapter 8 Behind the Scenes
Chapter 9 School Daze
Chapter 10 Grudge Match
Chapter 11 Cafeteria Confessional
Chapter 12 Precious Metals
Chapter 13 The Fugitive
Chapter 14 The Second Man
Chapter 15 Sweet Dreams
Chapter 16 Shanghaied
Chapter 17 Unlocked
Chapter 18 A Watery Grave
Chapter 19 At Rope’s End
Chapter 20 The Big Zero
Chapter 21 Swashbuckled
Chapter 22 History, Revised
About Franklin W. Dixon
FLASHBACK
1
FRANK
IT’S NOT EVERY DAY YOU get to shoot a cannon at a regiment of eighteenth-century British redcoats. Not in the twenty-first century, at least. But for one day, my humble little town of Bayport had flashed back to the year 1776.
The park overlooking our town’s namesake bay had been transformed into a battlefield with America and Great Britain facing off across center field of the baseball diamond to fight it out over freedom and taxes. Spectators decked out in Colonial garb watched from the bleachers and the hillside nearby, while a Benjamin Franklin look-alike grilled up hot dogs and hamburgers on the barbecue. In the port below, an American flag with only thirteen stars flew from the mast of a huge old Continental Navy warship. It was quite a sight.
I mean, seeing your family, friends, and classmates carrying muskets and dressed up in 250-year-old military uniforms is about as strange as it gets. It felt kind of like the whole town had traveled back in time.
We were reenacting the Battle of Bayport to commemorate our town’s small part in the Revolutionary War (it was more of a skirmish than a battle, really) and to celebrate the grand opening of the new Bayport History Museum aboard the USS Resolve, a beautifully restored sailing frigate from the very first US naval fleet.
The town had gone all out for the event, and it was hard not to get swept up in the excitement. Just about everyone in Bayport had turned out, and many of them were participating, my brother Joe and I included. The Revolutionary War had always been one of my favorite subjects. I was also volunteering at the museum along with the rest of Bayport High’s Young Historians Club, so I have to admit that I felt a real sense of pride standing there in my militiaman uniform. Even Joe, who doesn’t always share my more studious inclinations, had to admit that any event where you got to fire a real musket was pretty cool.
“Freedom schmeedom!” Joe yelled at me from across the field, apparently getting into character as a redcoat rifleman. “That’s the last time I let you have the last doughnut, you ungrateful Colonial freeloader!”
Okay, so maybe Joe wasn’t taking the reenactment as seriously as I was. But we weren’t really here to fight over doughnuts. This was a celebration.
Last year the Bayport Historical Society found a whole stash of Revolutionary War armaments buried in the Resolve’s collapsed cargo hold when they started restoring the ship. There were crates and crates full of muskets, sabers, uniforms, and all kinds of other stuff. They even found the large Colonial flag now flying from the Resolve’s tallest mast, and military correspondence from General George Washington himself. It turns out the Resolve had been transporting supplies and marching orders to Continental troops in the South back in 1776 when the ship was attacked off the coast by the British fleet and run aground.
The Resolve had been a rotting wreck, but the stuff in the crates was in amazing condition. Everyone agreed the find was pretty much priceless. It was a huge deal in the history and archeology communities, and because of it our new history museum was going to be home to one of the world’s most impressive collections of Revolutionary War artifacts. Historians, collectors, and enthusiasts were coming from all over the country for the museum’s opening. One guy was even coming all the way from London.
My AP US History teacher, Mr. Lakin, who also happens to be the president of the historical society, had been the one to open the first crate. After the discovery, there had been a lot of debate about whether to preserve the items or just sell them all at auction for the money. Mr. Lakin finally convinced bigwig Bayport developer Don Sterling and the city council that turning the entire thing, the ship and all, into a world-class museum would do more for the town’s economy than just selling everything off.
Judging by today’s turnout, they had done the right thing. For the reenactment, Mr. Lakin had thankfully ditched his usual plaid-and-polyester outfit for a pristine Colonial general’s uniform. He sat on top of a white horse looking over his troops, beaming with pride under his huge hat.
I was nearby, helping man one of the big cannons. We had a bunch of cannonballs piled in a neat pyramid next to the big old artillery gun, but we weren’t going to be loading them. We were just going to go through the motions, only loading the cannon with a little gunpowder so we could still fire it and put on a good show without anyone actually getting blown to bits in the process. The infantrymen on the battlefield were basically just shooting blanks as well. Everyone agreed that firing live ammunition would have made the reenactment a little too historically accurate.
Well, almost everyone. I could think of a few participants who probably wouldn’t mind shooting at each other. For a small town, we sure do manage to stir up our share of conflicts. Joe and I have witnessed plenty of them firsthand in our unofficial capacity as Bayport’s foremost unlicensed private investigators. Getting mixed up in other people’s beefs is a habit—either a good one or a bad one, depending on who you ask—and us Hardy boys can’t seem to shake it, no matter how hard we try to mind our own business.
There were two people in particular who might like to exchange shots, Mr. Lakin and Don Sterling. The local news even did a report on how their arguments over the best way to run the museum had nearly derailed the whole project. It seemed fitting that they were now facing off across the battlefield as opposing generals.
Joe and I found ourselves fighting on opposite sides of the battle as well. While I was behind the front line manning artillery for the good guys in blue, Joe was up front with the redcoat infantry’s vanguard. Back in the day the two armies had their riflemen line up right out in the open in the middle of a field, like they were getting ready to play a football game or something. Only instead of kicking off a ball, they fired straight at each other with muskets and cannons until the side that was shot up the most either gave up or ran off. It was basically like two big firing squads having a shootout! And then sometimes, whoever was left standing would charge at each other with bayonets and fight hand to hand. Pretty crazy if you ask me.
Joe waved from across the baseball-diamond-turned-battlefield and gave me a salute. I’m pretty sure patriots and redcoats weren’t supposed to salute one another before the battles, but I saluted him back anyway. He was my brother, after all.
Red, white, and blue fireworks burst in the air over the Resolve. It gave me the chills. It meant the battle was about to begin.
THE SHOT HEARD ROUND BAYPORT
2
JOE
KABOOM. THE FIRST CANNON BLAST thundered from the USS Resolve’s gun ports, announcing the official start of the reenactment of the Battle of Bayport. A big cheer went up from everyone. I could see Frank across the battlefield, waving the cannon’s big ramrod in the air and whooping it up. My brother really gets into this stuff.
Frank signed up for the reenactment because he can be a bit of a nerd sometimes. Me, well, let’s just say girls dig a guy in uniform. Yes, even one with a goofy tricorn hat that looks more like a giant pastry than headwear. At least, that’s what I was hoping. There was one girl in particular I wanted to impress. Jen Griffin looked great all dolled up in her Colonial dress as she watched the reenactment with a group of our fellow costumed Bayport High classmates. I tipped my tricorn in her direction, and she smiled that beautiful smile. That girl really did a number on me. I think my cheeks might have turned as red as the wool coat I was wearing, and I hoped she didn’t notice. To be honest, I was more interested in watching her watch the battle than actually participating in it.
The extra credit I was getting in Mr. Lakin’s history class didn’t hurt, though. I’m no slouch in the classroom, but I don’t rack up the As quite as easily as Frank does. And Frank was right; it is pretty cool getting to fire a real musket. As underage, not to mention unlicensed, private detectives, it’s not often you get a chance to carry a gun. Frank and I are usually armed with little more than our wits, so I was pretty excited to pack a piece for once, even if the piece in question was a four-foot-long 250-year-old musket without ammunition.
The reenactment had turned into something of a family affair for the Hardys. Our dad, retired Bayport crime-fighting legend Fenton Hardy, and aunt, active Bayport culinary legend Aunt Trudy, had gotten into the spirit as well. They were sitting on a hill above the “battlefield” along with a lot of other townspeople, dressed up in Colonial attire, watching the battle live. Dad looked ridiculous in his powdered wig, and Aunt Trudy, never one to let historical accuracy interfere with comfort, had accessorized her Betsy Ross costume with a deluxe beach chair topped by a red, white, and blue sun umbrella. The smartphone she was using to take a video of the reenactment was a modern touch as well.
It’s kind of nuts that back in the old days people used to actually gather around to watch live battles like they were a spectator sport or a play in the park. I guess they had to do something to entertain themselves before baseball and movie theaters, but it’s a pretty morbid pastime. Luckily, today’s festivities were supposed to be a lot less gruesome.
Although, there were a lot of people who probably wouldn’t mind whacking Don Sterling, whose history of cutthroat wheeling and dealing had earned him the nickname “the Don.” The Don wasn’t an actual mobster or anything like that, but he did have a reputation as one of Bayport’s most ruthless, and stingiest, businessmen. The town was full of ex-business partners and employees he’d turned into enemies over the years.
The Don adjusted his long red coat and yelled, “Prepare for battle, gents!” in a bad British accent. Don Sterling was an enthusiastic member of the town’s community theater, though everyone suspected his uncommonly generous donations had more to do with him landing leading roles than his acting chops.
Across the line, Mr. Lakin was trotting back and forth on his white horse, rallying the rebels. He actually looked a lot less ridiculous in his eighteenth-century general’s uniform than he normally did in his, um, “contemporary” clothing. Old Man Lake, as some of the kids call him when he isn’t around, hadn’t updated his wardrobe since the early 1980s, and it was probably out of style even then. He was a devotee of the “Three Ps” school of fashion: lots of polyester, plaid, and pastels. And big collars. Lots of big collars. Lake was a hard teacher and it was just about impossible to get an A (unless you were Frank), but everyone still liked him because he was passionate about teaching and you knew he’d give you a fair deal if you worked hard.
Teachers rarely get the recognition they deserve, while guys with big bucks and political pull like the Don hog the limelight, so it was cool seeing Mr. Lakin front and center at such a big event. He was really soaking up all the attention too and enjoying the chance to steal some of the Don’s thunder. I could hear him call out to his men from across the line.
“Don’t fire until you see the whites of Sterling’s beady little eyes!” he shouted out from atop his horse, earning whoops and hollers from his troops.
Don Sterling heard him too, and from the look on his face you could tell these guys really didn’t like each other. The Don drew his saber.
“I’ll cut you down myself, you rebel scum!” he screamed.
He had dropped the bad accent, and it sounded like he’d happily make good on his threat if he thought he could get away with it. Okay, so maybe the two men most responsible for our new history museum weren’t making the most professional impression on Bayport’s visitors, but us locals sure were enjoying the show.
“Attack!” the Don yelled, and the battle began in earnest.
Across the line, I could hear our drama teacher, Mr. Carr, who was playing a Colonial sergeant, passionately ordering the militiamen to raise their muskets. The British officer next to me responded, shouting out the commands, “Make ready! Take aim!”
I shouldered my musket and took aim at a patch of grass a few feet in front of the football team’s obnoxiously loudmouthed lineman Mikey Griffin. Unfortunately, Mikey was Jen’s big brother. And by big, I don’t just mean older. The guy was huge. Fortunately, Jen got her looks from a different part of the Griffin gene pool.
“Fire!” shouted the officer. I pulled the trigger. The gun’s flint-tipped hammer struck metal, igniting a flash of sparks in a little pan filled with gunpowder, and . . . BOOM. Flame and smoke leaped from the muzzle. The recoil wasn’t a joke. It jolted my hands and slammed the wooden stock back into my shoulder. Man, what a rush. I wondered if Frank was feeling the same thing firing his cannon.
The officer yelled the order to reload, and we went through the surprisingly complicated ritual of reloading the old flintlock muskets. This bad boy wasn’t like your modern guns, with self-contained bullets and multiple rounds. Even if you were only firing blanks, every time you wanted to shoot, you still had to go through the entire process of tearing open a paper cartridge full of gunpowder with your teeth and loading it straight down the barrel with a ramrod.
The whole thing took almost a minute—not including all those hours of gun safety training we had to complete before the museum’s intimidating weapons specialist, Bernie Blank, would even let us pick up a musket. The paper cartridges in the leather ammunition pouches we’d been given to wear on our belts were missing the .75 caliber musket balls, of course, so no one would get shot for real. But even without any bullets, standing there all out in the open like that without any cover, hurrying to reload my musket while the enemy fired away and the cannons boomed, I realized how brave those guys must have been to stand there without running and face what had to seem like certain death.
This wasn’t like the first-person-shooter video games Frank and I like to play, racking up points by blowing away zombies and aliens from our comfy gaming chairs. This was about as close as you could get to the real thing without it being the real thing. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time. Looking out across the field through the haze of smoke with the smell of black powder and war cries filling the air, it stopped feeling like a reenactment. It was like I was really there, and for a second I knew what it must have felt like for those soldiers all those years ago, a lot of them still just kids my age, fighting for their country on the field of battle. Sure, I like to joke around a lot, but this was really profound stuff. Uh-oh, I better be careful. I’m starting to sound like my brother!
I wasn’t the only one getting swept up in the action. Mr. Lakin stormed through the ranks on his horse, waving a long flintlock pistol over his head, screaming, “Charge!”
All of us Bayport High kids cheered a
t that one, even those of us on the opposite side. It’s not often you get to see your history teacher dressed up like George Washington, leading a charge on horseback.
Not wanting to be upstaged, Don Sterling ran forward, waving his saber over his head and yelling something about treachery and king’s pride. I couldn’t really hear him over all the noise. The patriots fired a final volley of shots, and Mr. Lakin let loose with his pistol. It jumped in his hand, and he almost fell off his horse. What a show!
Like we’d rehearsed, some of the soldiers on each side fell to the ground, pretending to be shot or wounded. The Don dropped to his knees with gusto, like he had really been shot. His hand groped for his heart, and he keeled over onto the ground. I hadn’t remembered the British general getting shot during the rehearsal, or in the real battle for that matter, but overeager improvisation was one of the Don’s calling cards as an amateur actor.
Following the Don’s final flourish, the Resolve’s cannons boomed one more time, signaling the conclusion of the reenactment, and everyone cheered. Little did we know that the show was just getting started . . . the battle’s real climax was still to come.
REWRITING HISTORY
3
FRANK
NOW, THAT WAS AWESOME. JOE and I have had our share of adventures, but I’ve never gotten to experience anything quite like that before. It was like living history.
When the smoke cleared, everyone was milling around, talking excitedly and patting one another on the back. I saw Joe return his musket to Bernie Blank, who was collecting all the weapons to take back to the museum. Then he came over and put his arm around my shoulder.
“Man, I’ve got to give it to you, that was really amazing,” he said.
“Huh?” I said, and Joe reached up and pulled out the earplugs I’d forgotten were stuffed in my ears to protect them from the cannon fire. Oops.
“I said, that was amazing,” Joe repeated. “It really felt like I was there.”
The Battle of Bayport Page 1
