The Crimson Tide: A Novel. Chambers Robert William

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      Ilse rose, big, fresh, smilingly inviting; Brisson inspected her seriously–he was only half as tall–then he politely encircled her waist and led her out.

      They danced as though they could not get enough of it–exhilaration due to reaction from the long strain during dangerous days.

      It was already morning, but they danced on. Palla’s delicate intoxication passed–returned–passed–hovered like a rosy light in her brain, but faded always as she danced.

      There were snapping-crackers and paper caps; and they put them on and pelted each other with the drooping table flowers.

      Then Estridge went to the piano and sang an ancient song, called “The Cork Leg”–not very well–but well intended and in a gay and inoffensive voice.

      But Ilse sang some wonderful songs which she had learned in the Battalion of Death.

      And that is what was being done when a waiter knocked and asked whether they might desire to order breakfast.

      That ended it. The hour of parting had arrived.

      No longer bored with one another, they shook hands cordially, regretfully.

      It was not a very long time, as time is computed, before these four met again.

      CHAPTER III

      The dingy little Danish steamer Elsinore passed in at dawn, her camouflage obscured by sea-salt, her few passengers still prostrated from the long battering administered by the giant seas of the northern route.

      A lone Yankee soldier was aboard–an indignant lieutenant of infantry named Shotwell–sent home from a fighting regiment to instruct the ambitious rookie at Camp Upton.

      He had hailed his assignment with delight, thankfully rid himself of his cooties, reported in Paris, reported in London; received orders to depart via Denmark; and, his mission there fullfilled, he had sailed on the Elsinore, already disenchanted with his job and longing to be back with his regiment.

      And now, surly from sea-sickness, worried by peace rumours, but still believing that the war would last another year and hopeful of getting back before it ended, he emerged from his stuffy quarters aboard the Elsinore and gazed without enthusiasm at the minarets of Coney Island, now visible off the starboard bow.

      Near him, in pasty-faced and shaky groups, huddled his fellow passengers, whom he had not seen during the voyage except when lined up for life-drill.

      He had not wished to see them, either, nor, probably, had they desired to lavish social attentions on him or upon one another.

      These pallid, discouraged voyagers were few–not two dozen cabin passengers in all.

      Who they might be he had no curiosity to know; he had not exchanged ten words with any of them during the entire and nauseating voyage; he certainly did not intend to do so now.

      He favoured them with a savage glance and walked over to the port side–the Jersey side–where there seemed to be nobody except a tired Scandinavian sailor or two.

      In the grey of morning the Hook loomed up above the sea, gloomy as a thunder-head charged with lightning.

      After a while the batteries along the Narrows slipped into view. Farther on, camouflaged ships rode sullenly at anchor, as though ashamed of their frivolous and undignified appearance. A battleship was just leaving the Lower Bay, smoke pouring from every funnel. Destroyers and chasers rushed by them, headed seaward.

      Then, high over the shore mists and dimly visible through rising vapours, came speeding a colossal phantom.

      Vague as a shark’s long shadow sheering translucent depths, the huge dirigible swept eastward and slid into the Long Island fog.

      And at that moment somebody walked plump into young Shotwell; and the soft, fragrant shock knocked the breath out of both.

      She recovered hers first:

      “I’m sorry!” she faltered. “It was stupid. I was watching the balloon and not looking where I was going. I’m afraid I hurt you.”

      He recovered his breath, saluted ceremoniously, readjusted his overseas cap to the proper angle.

      Then he said, civilly enough: “It was my fault entirely. It was I who walked into you. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

      They smiled, unembarrassed.

      “That was certainly a big dirigible,” he ventured. “There are bigger Zeps, of course.”

      “Are there really?”

      “Oh, yes. But they’re not much good in war, I believe.”

      She turned her trim, small head and looked out across the bay; and Shotwell, who once had had a gaily receptive eye for pulchritude, thought her unusually pretty.

      Also, the steady keel of the Elsinore was making him feel more human now; and he ventured a further polite observation concerning the pleasures of homecoming after extended exile.

      She turned with a frank shake of her head: “It seems heartless to say so, but I’m rather sorry I’m back,” she said.

      He smiled: “I must admit,” he confessed, “that I feel the same way. Of course I want to see my people. But I’d give anything to be in France at this moment, and that’s the truth!”

      The girl nodded her comprehension: “It’s quite natural,” she remarked. “One does not wish to come home until this thing is settled.”

      “That’s it exactly. It’s like leaving an interesting play half finished. It’s worse–it’s like leaving an absorbing drama in which you yourself are playing an exciting rôle.”

      She glanced at him–a quick glance of intelligent appraisal.

      “Yes, it must have seemed that way to you. But I’ve been merely one among a breathless audience… And yet I can’t bear to leave in the very middle–not knowing how it is to end. Besides,” she added carelessly, “I have nobody to come back to except a rather remote relative, so my regrets are unmixed.”

      There ensued a silence. He was afraid she was about to go, but couldn’t seem to think of anything to say to detain her.

      For the girl was very attractive to a careless and amiably casual man of his sort–the sort who start their little journey through life with every intention of having the best kind of a time on the way.

      She was so distractingly pretty, so confidently negligent of convention–or perhaps disdainful of it–that he already was regretting that he had not met her at the beginning of the voyage instead of at the end.

      She had now begun to button up her ulster, as though preliminary to resuming her deck promenade. And he wanted to walk with her. But because she had chosen to be informal with him did not deceive him into thinking that she was likely to tolerate further informality on his part. And yet he had a vague notion that her inclinations were friendly.

      “I’m sorry,” he said rather stupidly, “that I didn’t meet you in the beginning.”

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