Chapter 1

Ronnie was in the hayloft sliding down the piles of newly-stacked hay when he heard the car drive up into the yard and come to a stop. Spitting a mouthful of hayseeds from his lips and tongue, he ran over to the open doors and peered down into the yard.

The car was shiny and new, a big black sedan with white-walled tires. A man in a business suit carrying a briefcase climbed out of the driver’s seat and headed briskly for the front door of the house.

Ronnie knew who he was and why he was here, and his heart sank. Why did the St. Lawrence Seaway need a piece of the Rorth farm land, and why did it have to be just that part where the deserted village lay?

Of course he really knew the answers to his questions. What he meant was—why did it have to happen that way? Why did the land have to be so low that when the dam was built and the waters of the St. Lawrence River began to pile up behind it, the deserted village would be flooded?

He thought of Grandfather and Father in the parlor talking with the man and he wondered about what they were saying and how it would all turn out. The last time Mr.2 Evans had come in his black sedan Grandfather had gotten very angry and Ronnie had heard him shouting and thumping his cane on the floor.

Ronnie went over to the opening in the loft floor and, grasping the ladder, climbed quickly down to the bottom. It was darker below, and for a moment the boy had trouble seeing his way. He heard Beatrice stamping in her stall, and smelled the sharp, pungent odor of fresh manure.

His bare feet padded across the hard earth floor as he moved toward the barn door. A moment later he was out in the glaring sunlight, the full heat of the afternoon striking him on his bare shoulders and back.

He saw his brother Phil lying in the hammock beneath the grape arbor.

“Hey, Phil!” he called. “That man’s here again.”

Phil opened his eyes lazily. “What man?” he asked indifferently.

Ronnie squatted down beside him. “The man from the Seaway, of course. I just hope Grandfather gets hopping mad again and gives it to him good. Nobody’s got a right to just come along and tell a person he’s got to sell his land. Nobody!”

Phil closed his eyes again and started the hammock swinging.

“Of course you don’t care one bit, Philip Rorth!” Ronnie continued. “I think Grandfather was right. He said you’re not a real Rorth! ’Cause a real Rorth’s got fighting blood and a love for his land, and most of all he wouldn’t let the village go without a fight.”

Phil opened his left eye and squinted up at his brother.3 “All the fighting in the world’s not going to save the village, Ronnie, ’cause when the government wants something, it gets it. Period!”

Ronnie turned away in disgust. What could he expect of Phil? His brother had never gotten excited about anything, and he probably never would.

He headed toward the other side of the house, partly because it was shady there, but mostly because he knew the parlor window was open and he might be able to hear what was going on inside.

He passed the woodshed and swung around the corner of the house. Almost immediately he heard Grandfather’s voice. “Why, young fellow, do you know this land’s been in the family close onto a hundred and fifty years? And you come along, and without so much as a how-do-you-do, tell me I got to up and off it? Hah! Well, I’ve got a lawyer, too, to protect my rights!”

Ronnie settled down in the shade near the lilac bushes. He really wasn’t eavesdropping. He’d been wanting to weed the lily-of-the-valley bed for some time now, and this was a perfect time to do it with the sun on the other side of the house. He grabbed hold of a ragweed and started to pull it, but he stopped tugging after a few seconds so he could hear what Mr. Evans was saying.

“Mr. Rorth,” the man said, his voice like a whisper compared to Grandfather’s, “Mr. Rorth, I wish you’d try to understand. We—”

He didn’t get any further because when Grandfather was angry he didn’t usually give anyone else much time to talk. “I don’t understand, eh? Well, young fellow, I understand4 just fine, and just don’t you bother giving me any more of that hogwash about how wonderful it will be when big ships can come sailing down the river from the ocean to the Great Lakes, because that doesn’t touch me one bit.”

Ronnie heard his father’s voice next. “Father,” said Mr. Rorth, “it doesn’t do a bit of good getting yourself all upset like this. The Seaway Authority has told us that the water level of the lake formed behind the dam will cover the section of land where the deserted village is, and for this reason it will have to be purchased. There isn’t a thing we can do about it. Our lawyer has told us that himself.”

“More hogwash! Sometimes I think that lawyer is working for both sides and against the middle.”

The weed came loose from the ground with a suddenness that sent Ronnie reeling backward. Before he could catch himself he had crashed against the side of the house. When he looked up, there was his father peering at him from behind the screen. “Ronnie, what are you doing out there?”

“I—I’m weeding the lily of the valley,” he managed to stammer.

“Well, you’d better weed it some other time. Now go somewhere else.”

“Y—yes, sir.” Ronnie wandered away toward the front of the house. He felt ashamed for having been caught snooping, and he was peeved at himself too. He wanted to hear what happened next. He hoped and prayed that there could be something that would save the village.

Almost without thinking, he headed across the dirt road that led out to the paved highway and then he entered the apple orchard. The blossoms had faded already, and in their5 place were clusters of tiny green knobs with big whiskers on the ends.

A few minutes later he left the orchard and stood for a moment at the top of the bluff, looking down into the tight little valley where the buildings of the deserted village lay half hidden among the hemlocks and spruce and maples and oaks. Great-great-grandfather Ezra Rorth’s father had built the village, and had chosen a beautiful location. The brick and stone buildings were nestled comfortably in the deep ravine. A cobbled road ran through the center of the village, and Goose Brook raced along its rock-strewn course down to the St. Lawrence.

Every time he stopped to look at the village from up here on the bluff, Ronnie thought of Grandfather. When Ronnie was hardly old enough to walk, his grandfather had brought him here. For many years after that the old man and the boy had walked together down the cobbled road in the late evenings, and Grandfather had told stories of the days when the village was alive with people, and the glass furnace belched smoke day and night and Rorth glassware was known almost around the world.

Now, as always, the village drew Ronnie like a magnet. He raced down the face of the bluff, whirling his arms about like propeller blades to keep his balance. At the bottom he stopped. Now that he was here, he couldn’t decide just which part of the village he wanted to visit. He could swing on the wild grapevines in front of the gristmill, and maybe take off his trousers and go sailing feet first into the millpond. Or, he could have fun climbing around on the pile of rubble that remained from the old bakery building.

He decided to visit the old, padlocked, boarded-up building6 which had been the office of the Glassworks back in Great-great-grandfather Ezra’s days. He started down the path, keeping his eyes open for any big toadstools he could splatter against a tree trunk. Then he spied Bill.

His best friend was coming through the trees from the opposite direction. Ronnie put his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly.

“I was just coming over to your place,” Bill greeted him. “Where are you headed?”

“No place special. Thought maybe I’d climb around on the old office building roof and maybe get a look at that swift nest down the chimney. You figuring on something else?”

“Nope.”

They started down the path together. “You know, Ronnie,” Bill said as they came to the cobblestone road through the middle of the village, “you know, I’d sure like to get a look inside that building sometime. How come your grandfather keeps it all locked up with shutters on the windows?”

“He’s had it open once or twice.”

“I’ve never seen it open.”

“I guess that’s because he hasn’t opened it up since we were big enough to remember,” Ronnie said.

“My pa was talking about it the other night. He said it’s supposed to be haunted. You believe that, Ronnie?”

Ronnie thought it over. “Maybe, maybe not.” He wouldn’t let Bill know how he really felt. Grandfather never seemed to want to talk about the building, so perhaps there was something that he wanted to hide. Of course, Ronnie had heard the stories from others, about how his7 great-great-grandfather Ezra had killed someone in the office building and had robbed the Glassworks of money. No two people told the same story, and Ronnie had decided not to believe any of them.

“I’d sure like to get inside,” Bill repeated.

The old office stood back from the cobblestone road. Two giant sentinel pines towered over the roof, dwarfing the building and the sapling hemlocks and pines that crowded close to its sides.

“Race you to it!” Bill yelled suddenly and started down the narrow path from the cobbled road.

Ronnie knew he couldn’t outrun Bill with his longer legs, but he’d sure try anyway. Gasping for breath, Ronnie reached his friend, who had dropped to the ground and stretched himself out in a nest of last year’s leaves just in front of the padlocked door. Ronnie threw himself down beside Bill.

They lay there for a few minutes catching their breaths. Then Bill got up and began to hunt around on the ground. He found a rock and brought it over to the door.

“What are you aiming to do?” Ronnie asked.

“I can smash that lock easy,” Bill answered.

Ronnie pulled himself to his feet. “Forget it. We were going to climb to the roof and look down the chimney at the swift’s nest—remember?”

Bill looked at the stone in his hand and then into Ronnie’s face. “O.K.,” he said, letting the rock drop to the ground. “Some other time, maybe. But, by golly, I sure want to see what’s inside.”

“Grandfather said there’s nothing much. And he knows because he’s hunted through everything.”

8 Bill had shinnied up a young sapling and was pulling himself carefully onto the roof. “What was he looking for?” he grunted.

Ronnie started up after him and by the time he reached Bill’s side he had conveniently forgotten to answer the question. They mounted the slope together and then edged their way down the other side where the chimney was located. Bill had no trouble peering down into the chimney flue, but Ronnie had to stand on his toes to do it.

“See anything?” Ronnie asked.

“I can make out the nest. See it, over there toward the back? I think there are eggs in it.”

“Yes,” Ronnie agreed. “Looks like three of them.”

They watched for a minute or two more and then lost interest. Instead, they sat down on the edge of the roof, with their legs hanging dangerously over the side.

Off in the distance, Ronnie could see a stretch of the St. Lawrence River and a smudge of smoke from a river boat, now already out of sight.

“A man from the Seaway’s at the house talking with Dad and Grandfather,” he said suddenly.

“The Seaway’s dickering with my pa, too,” Bill said. “Pa says it’s the best thing that ever came to him. They’re going to pay him five hundred dollars an acre, and most of it’s no-good swamp land. ’Course, it’s different with you, Ronnie. I know it’s the village that’s going.”

“I wish there was something I could do.”

“Pa says there’s not a chance.”

“I know. Grandfather won’t say it, but he knows he’s licked.”

“Sure is a shame, because they don’t really need that part9 where the village is. Not for the main steamship lanes, anyway. But just because it’s bottom land and will flood up, it’s got to go.”

“Goose Brook will be swallowed up, too.”

“Too bad your great-great-grandfather didn’t build the village on high ground. But then, I guess they used the stream for power to turn the wheels for the gristmill.”

Ronnie nodded. “I sure as shooting wish I could just pile up a heap of ground along the river to keep the water out. Then they wouldn’t want the village land.”

He was looking at the narrow gap where Goose Brook tumbled between the two bluffs that formed the margins of the valley. Why, it wasn’t more than seventy-five or a hundred feet across, and if it were filled in, the water behind the new Seaway dam could rise as high as it needed to without flooding the valley.

Ronnie almost lost his balance and plunged over the edge as the thought struck him. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “I’ve just gotten the coolest idea you ever did hear of. Now why in the name of common sense didn’t I think of it sooner?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Bill answered, “seeing I haven’t got the slightest idea of what you’re talking about.”

“Well, come on and I’ll show you!” Ronnie exploded. Then he scrambled up the roof and back over the other side, and swung himself into the sapling like a monkey let out of its cage.

Chapter 2

Ronnie was so busy telling Bill about his idea, and Bill was listening to it so intently, that neither of the boys saw the station wagon until it was almost upon them. “... and if we could build a dam across that narrow gap the village could be saved,” Ronnie was saying.

It was Bill who saw the station wagon first and he stopped dead in his tracks. “Look, Ronnie,” he exclaimed, “a car—in here!”

There was an old dirt road leading from the highway and connecting with the cobblestone road, but neither of the boys could ever remember seeing it used. But now that Ronnie thought about it, there wasn’t any reason why it couldn’t be used—if someone had a mind to get to the village without walking, someone traveling along the highway, that is. And here apparently was someone who wanted to do just that.

The man stopped the car, turned off the engine, and stepped out. He came toward the boys, smiling broadly. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you. I thought sure I was lost and the road was too narrow to turn around and go back to the highway.” He took a step toward Ronnie, offering11 his hand. “My name’s Caldwell,” he said. “Joseph Caldwell.”

Ronnie shook hands. “I’m Ronnie, and this here’s Bill. You looking for something special, mister?”

“Yes. The old Rorth Glassworks.”

“You’ve found it,” Bill answered.

“But there’s nothing here any more, Mr. Caldwell,” Ronnie added quickly. “I mean, they don’t make glass now—not for the last seventy-five or eighty years, near-abouts.”

“I know.” The man smiled faintly. “Anybody who’s traveled up that dirt road could guess that there’s been no activity here for years.”

Ronnie grinned. “Now that you’re here, what are you fixing to do?” he asked.

“Well, what I’d like to do is look the place over. But I suppose I’ll have to get permission first.”

Ronnie shook his head. “You won’t have to do that, Mr. Caldwell. This land belongs to my grandfather. He’ll let you look. Maybe you’d like to have us show you around?”

“I’d like that very much!” Mr. Caldwell answered.

As Ronnie led the man down the cobbled street, a hundred stories Grandfather had told him about the village leaped to his mind and begged to be told. He remembered the evening Grandfather and he had sat on the top of the bluff overlooking the village, with the bats circling overhead and the buildings standing silent below and fading from sight among the trees in the gathering darkness. How vividly Grandfather had told the story of the great fire of 1871 when ten of the workers’ cottages had burned to the ground, and Great-great-grandfather Ezra had worked beside12 his men, battling the blaze until he had fallen from smoke poisoning.

Or, the winter of the great blizzard when the roof of the Glassworks had caved in from the weight, and when the drifts were so high it took three days to dig out the road so that supplies could be procured from the storehouses.

He remembered, too, the story Grandfather told about the duchess from Bavaria who had visited the Works because she admired the Rorth glassware so much. Great-great-grandfather had blown a special piece for her that day, and she, in turn, had left a treasured piece of Bavarian glass.

They approached the two-story building beside Goose Brook. “This was the gristmill,” Ronnie told Mr. Caldwell. “Every bit of flour and meal for the village was made here from the grain grown on the fields up above where Dad has his orchards now.”

Caldwell inspected the huge, overshot waterwheel mounted on its two stone-and-cement piers and connected to the inside of the building with a rusty shaft by which the power was transferred to the grinding stones.

They went inside. A musty smell of damp stone and stale air touched Ronnie’s nostrils. The large grinding stone stood motionless now. Big copper caldrons and stone mixing pots gave evidence that the grain had not only been ground to flour, but baked into bread as well. A massive fireplace with an iron oven on each side formed the entire rear wall.

Caldwell poked about among the smaller articles for a while and then followed the boys outside. Next they visited the main building where the glass had been made and13 blown. Bill showed the man the main furnace with its four openings into the main chimney which rose like a giant above the furnace and disappeared through the roof. Some of the long-handled “pots” in which the glass was heated were still stacked against the wall.

Otherwise, the building was bare of its former equipment. Caldwell led the way outside. “I’ve got time for more—if you have,” he announced.

The church, sawmill, and a few of the workers’ houses which were still intact, followed. Then came a quick inspection of the smith shop and finally the old office.

“All boarded up and locked, I see!” Caldwell commented. “Something special housed inside?”

“Why, no, sir!” Ronnie answered. He didn’t feel like giving an explanation of something so personal that even Grandfather didn’t like to talk about it.

Caldwell didn’t press his question. “I certainly am impressed by how well preserved some of the buildings are,” he said instead.

“That’s because Grandfather didn’t want to see the village fall to pieces,” Ronnie answered. “Before he came down with his gout he spent days working down here, every time he could get away from the farm. He told me for a while he even milled his own lumber from the wood lot so’s he could afford to do it.”

“Your grandfather must have a real love for this place,” the man said sincerely.

“I reckon it’s just about the biggest thing in his life.” Ronnie was going to add “and mine too,” but he didn’t because Caldwell had turned away and had started down the path toward the cobbled road.

14 “Grandpa even replaced some of these stones in the old roadbed,” Ronnie added as the three headed back toward Mr. Caldwell’s car.

He handed each of the boys a quarter. “You’ve been real fine guides,” he said. “Thank you for taking me around.”

“You don’t need to pay us, mister,” Ronnie said, handing the money back. “Bill and I—we would have hung around here anyway.”

“Keep it, please,” the man insisted. “Who knows—I may want you to help me more, and then I wouldn’t feel right asking you, would I?”