The Man from Archangel and Other Tales of Adventure
As I went to bed the shingle and seaweed were pattering up against my attic window, and the wind was screaming as though every gust were a lost soul. ... Show synopsis As I went to bed the shingle and seaweed were pattering up against my attic window, and the wind was screaming as though every gust were a lost soul. By that time the sounds of the tempest had become a lullaby to me. At about three in the morning, I was awoke by the sound of a great knocking at my door and excited cries in the wheezy voice of my housekeeper. "Eh, maister, maister!" she screamed in her dialect. "Come doun, mun; come doun! There's a muckle ship gaun ashore on the reef, and the puir folks are a' yammerin' and ca'in' for help." "Those men out there," I said to myself, "have already gone through half the horrors of death. If they be saved they will but have to go through the same once should pass away now, since they have suffered that anticipation which is more than the pain of dissolution." A terrible thing to say, I admit it. In my defense, when I rolled over and tried to go back to bed, it was useless. In short order, I was down at the beach, trying to find a way to help -- but there was nothing for it. Those men were doomed. We were all doomed.