The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1896-05-20
THE SHIP BUCEPHALUS.

mo snipe shooting tomorrow, SIR"
The officer of the life patrol paused
with lighted lantern on his arm, his
Southwestern buttoned close up to his
throat and the peak of his oilslsin cap
pulled far down over his weatherbeaten
face and passed out into the night.
AS he opened the door gust of wind
swept the knob from his grasp, dashed
the framework against the wall of the
chamber and eXtinguished the flicker
ing oil lamp that made shift to render
visible the darkness of the room.
Clarence Baxter hastily fastened the
door after the retreating figure, re-
lighted the lamp and sat down on the
sea chest which served as chair and
bed. A strange place it was, this beach
comber's cabin. Timbers from every
ship that had come ashore on Coffin
beach these so years were woven into
its heterogeneous framework. Here
part of steamships deckhouse, there
stanchion from the sturdy hull of some
long-forgotten merchantmen, yonder
the patched wanscoting of clipper
ships once gorgeous cabin-cheek-by-
jtwl these relics of departed pride
stood like monuments of the dead past
in some strange nautical cemetery.
Outside the gale ragged with increas-
ing fury. Low though it sat between
the sand dunes, the solid walls of the
hovel trembled and rocked under the
impact of the blast like ship in a
heavy sea. Such spring storm had not
been seen on the coast for years-not
since the night (as veteran told after
ward) when the clipper ship Bucephalus
came ashore way back in the sos. In
the angle over there the prov of this
vessel formed sort of cornerstone for
the strange structure, and the horse in
the fgurehead stared at Baxton with
the sightless eyes of an emblem of death
He would have been puzzled to explain
why he felt SO strangely, left alone in
this coy cabin. BaXton was not
superstitious man, nor one given to
sentimental vagaries or emotional weak
nesses, and yet, as the door swung to
after the officer, he felt for moment
strange and unaccountable thrill-a
chilling of the blood-a consciousness
of something outside of his sphere of
influence, superior to his power of con-
troll, that was gradually but surely
working its will around and about him.
the feeling was not one of fear. What,
indeed, was he to be afraid Of? Surely
not of the storm, for he was coZily
housed. Not the thieves or marauders,
for he and the coast guardsmen were
the only human beings on that strip of
beach. OF what, then, was he fearful?
1t was all nonsense, he said-he was not
afraid at all.
BaXton shivered as he threw another
piece of driftwood on the fire and drew
closer to the green-blue blaze of the
copper-stained timber that cast faa-
tastic, manyhued shadows on the
rough walls. mo going back to the
mainland tonight" he thought, as the
picture of the storm-lashed bay rose
before his mind, and he silently 90.
jurgated the secretary of the treasury
who had promulgated the order for
bidding the life-saving men to entertain
guests in their cozy stations
The tea chest was filled with old
newspapers, the officer had said, with
which he might, perhaps, while away a n
hour. He lifted the lid. Yes-so it
was-prints running back for maa7
years, tied up and labeled in cramped
handwriting-tha of Calamity Dicks
probably, the fisherman who, until his
death last year, had occupied this cabin
since no man remembered when. Turn
ing them over, Baxton saw that the
packets contained clippings descrip-
tive of the wrecks on this same stretch
of sand, called Coffin beach-"Cemetery
beach would be better" Baxton thought,
as he surveyed the yellow bundles.
Bark Excelsior, June, 1872" read on:
$50 drowned, two savcd;" "Ship Andro-
mache, January, 1S43, 20 drowned, noac
saved" read another ''Ship Harold"
1o drowned, four saved; clipper Van
guard, sc drowned, Is saved" and so on
through pile of packages that reached
knee high as he laid them on the floor.
Near the bottom was larger bundle
labeled clipper Bucephalus, Marco,
1856. lG2 drowned, four saved" Where