The Crimson Tide: A Novel

Robert Chambers

Chambers Robert William

The Crimson Tide: A Novel

To

MARGARET ILLINGTON BOWES

AND

EDWARD J. BOWES

I

I’d rather walk with Margaret,

I’d rather talk with Margaret,

And anchor in some sylvan nook

And fish Dream Lake with magic hook

Than sit indoors and write this book.

II

An author’s such an ass, alas!

To watch the world through window glass

When out of doors the skies are fair

And pretty girls beyond compare–

Like Margaret–are strolling there.

III

I’d rather walk with E. J. Bowes,

I’d rather talk with E. J. Bowes,

In woodlands where the sunlight gleams

Across the golden Lake of Dreams

Than drive a quill across these reams.

IV

If I could have my proper wish

With these two friends I’d sit and fish

Where sheer cliffs wear their mossy hoods

And Dream Lake widens in the woods,

But Fate says “No! Produce your goods!”

ENVOI

Inspect my goods and choose a few

Dear Margaret, and Edward, too;

Then sink them in the Lake of Dreams

In dim, gold depths where sunshine streams

Down from the sky’s unclouded blue,

And I’ll be much obliged to you.

В В В В R. W. C.

FOREWORD

An American ambulance going south stopped on the snowy road; the driver, an American named Estridge, got out; his companion, a young woman in furs, remained in her seat.

Estridge, with the din of the barrage in his ears, went forward to show his papers to the soldiers who had stopped him on the snowy forest road.

His papers identified him and the young woman; and further they revealed the fact that the ambulance contained only a trunk and some hand luggage; and called upon all in authority to permit John Henry Estridge and Miss Palla Dumont to continue without hindrance the journey therein described.

The soldiers–Siberian riflemen–were satisfied and seemed friendly enough and rather curious to obtain a better look at this American girl, Miss Dumont, described in the papers submitted to them as “American companion to Marie, third daughter of Nicholas Romanoff, ex-Tzar.”

An officer came up, examined the papers, shrugged.

“Very well,” he said, “if authority is to be given this American lady to join the Romanoff family, now under detention, it is not my affair.”

But he, also, appeared to be perfectly good natured about the matter, accepting a cigarette from Estridge and glancing at the young woman in the ambulance as he lighted it.

“You know,” he remarked, “if it would interest you and the young lady, the Battalion of Death is over yonder in the birch woods.”

“The woman’s battalion?” asked Estridge.

“Yes. They make their début to-day. Would you like to see them? They’re going forward in a few minutes, I believe.”

Estridge nodded and walked back to the ambulance.

“The woman’s battalion is over in those birch woods, Miss Dumont. Would you care to walk over and see them before they leave for the front trenches?”

The girl in furs said very gravely:

“Yes, I wish to see women who are about to go into battle.”

She rose from the seat, laid a fur-gloved hand on his offered arm, and stepped down onto the snow.

“To serve,” she said, as they started together through the silver birches, following a trodden way, “is not alone the only happiness in life: it is the only reason for living.”

“I know you think so, Miss Dumont.”

“You also must believe so, who are here as a volunteer in Russia.”

“It’s a little more selfish with me. I’m a medical student; it’s a liberal education for me even to drive an ambulance.”

“There is only one profession nobler than that practised by the physician, who serves his fellow men,” she said in a low, dreamy voice.

“Which profession do you place first?”

“The profession of those who serve God alone.”

“The priesthood?”

“Yes. And the religious orders.”

“Nuns, too?” he demand