The Crimson Tide: A Novel. Chambers Robert William
Читать онлайн книгу.
bewilders the boche, then terrifies him. And the next time he sees you coming he takes to his heels.”
Shotwell, amused, fascinated, and entirely surprised, began to laugh.
“You seem to know the game pretty well yourself,” he said. “You are quite right. That is the idea.”
“It’s a wonderful game,” she mused. “I can understand why you are not pleased at being ordered home.”
“It’s rather rotten luck when the outfit had just been cited,” he explained.
“Oh. I should think you would hate to come back!” exclaimed the girl, with frank sympathy.
“Well, I was glad at first, but I’m sorry now. I’m missing a lot, you see.”
“Why did they send you back?”
“To instruct rookies!” he said with a grimace. “Rather inglorious, isn’t it? But I’m hoping I’ll have time to weather this detail and get back again before we reach the Rhine.”
“I want to get back again, too,” she reflected aloud, biting her lip and letting her dark eyes rest on the foggy statue of Liberty, towering up ahead.
“What was your branch?” he inquired.
“Oh, I didn’t do anything,” she exclaimed, flushing. “I’ve been in Russia. And now I must find out at once what I can do to be sent to France.”
“The war caught you over there, I suppose,” he hazarded.
“Yes… I’ve been there since I was twenty. I’m twenty-four. I had a year’s travel and study and then I became the American companion of the little Russian Grand Duchess Marie.”
“They all were murdered, weren’t they?” he asked, much interested.
“Yes… I’m trying to forget–”
“I beg your pardon–”
“It’s quite all right. I, myself, mentioned it first; but I can’t talk about it yet. It’s too personal–” She turned and looked at the monstrous city.
After a silence: “It’s been a rotten voyage, hasn’t it?” he remarked.
“Perfectly rotten. I was so ill I could scarcely keep my place during life-drill… I didn’t see you there,” she added with a faint smile, “but I’m sure you were aboard, even if you seem to doubt that I was.”
And then, perhaps considering that she had been sufficiently amiable to him, she gave him his congé with a pleasant little nod.
“Could I help you–do anything–” he began. But she thanked him with friendly finality.
They sauntered in opposite directions; and he did not see her again to speak to her.
Later, jolting toward home in a taxi, it occurred to him that it might have been agreeable to see such an attractively informal girl again. Any man likes informality in women, except among the women of his own household, where he would promptly brand it as indiscretion.
He thought of her for a while, recollecting details of the episode and realising that he didn’t even know her name. Which piqued him.
“Serves me right,” he said aloud with a shrug of finality. “I had more enterprise once.”
Then he looked out into the sunlit streets of Manhattan, all brilliant with flags and posters and swarming with prosperous looking people–his own people. But to his war-enlightened and disillusioned eyes his own people seemed almost like aliens; he vaguely resented their too evident prosperity, their irresponsible immunity, their heedless preoccupation with the petty things of life. The acres of bright flags fluttering above them, the posters that made a gay back-ground for the scene, the sheltered, undisturbed routine of peace seemed to annoy him.
An odd irritation invaded him; he had a sudden impulse to stop his taxi and shout, “Fat-heads! Get into the game! Don’t you know the world’s on fire? Don’t you know what a hun really is? You’d better look out and get busy!”
Fifth Avenue irritated him–shops, hotels, clubs, motors, the well-dressed throngs began to exasperate him.
On a side street he caught a glimpse of his own place of business; and it almost nauseated him to remember old man Sharrow, and the walls hung with plans of streets and sewers and surveys and photographs; and his own yellow oak desk–
“Good Lord!” he thought. “If the war ends, have I got to go back to that!–”
The family were at breakfast when he walked in on them–only two–his father and mother.
In his mother’s arms he suddenly felt very young and subdued, and very glad to be there.
“Where the devil did you come from, Jim?” repeated his father, with twitching features and a grip on his son’s strong hand that he could not bring himself to loosen.
Yes, it was pretty good to get home, after all– … And he might not have come back at all. He realised it, now, in his mother’s arms, feeling very humble and secure.
His mother had realised it, too, in every waking hour since the day her only son had sailed at night–that had been the hardest!–at night–and at an unnamed hour of an unnamed day!–her only son–gone in the darkness–
On his way upstairs, he noticed a red service flag bearing a single star hanging in his mother’s window.
He went into his own room, looked soberly around, sat down on the lounge, suddenly tired.
He had three days’ leave before reporting for duty. It seemed a miserly allowance. Instinctively he glanced at his wrist-watch. An hour had fled already.
“The dickens!” he muttered. But he still sat there. After a while he smiled to himself and rose leisurely to make his toilet.
“Such an attractively informal girl,” he thought regretfully.
“I’m sorry I didn’t learn her name. Why didn’t I?”
Philosophy might have answered: “But to what purpose? No young man expects to pick up a girl of his own kind. And he has no business with other kinds.”
But Shotwell was no philosopher.
The “attractively informal girl,” on whom young Shotwell was condescending to bestow a passing regret while changing his linen, had, however, quite forgotten him by this time. There is more philosophy in women.
Her train was now nearing Shadow Hill; she already could see the village in its early winter nakedness–the stone bridge, the old-time houses of the well-to-do, Main Street full of automobiles and farmers’ wagons, a crowded trolley-car starting for Deepdale, the county seat.
After four years the crudity of it all astonished her–the stark vulgarity of Main Street in the sunshine, every mean, flimsy architectural detail revealed–the dingy trolley poles, the telegraph poles loaded with unlovely wires and battered little electric light fixtures–the uncompromising, unrelieved ugliness of street and people, of shop and vehicle, of treeless sidewalks, brick pavement, car rails, hydrants, and rusty gasoline pumps.
Here was a people ignorant of civic pride, knowing no necessity for beauty, having no standards, no aspirations, conscious of nothing but the grosser material needs.
The hopelessness of this American town–and there were thousands like it–its architectural squalor, its animal unconsciousness, shocked her after four years in lands where colour, symmetry and good taste are indigenous and beauty as necessary as bread.
And the girl had been born here, too; had known no other home except when at boarding school or on shopping trips to New York.
Painfully depressed, she descended at the station, where she climbed into one of the familiar omnibuses and gave her luggage check to the lively young driver.
Several drummers also got in, and finally a farmer whom she recognised but who had evidently forgotten her.
The driver, a talkative young man whom she remembered as