Into the Valley of Death

by A L Berridge

  The gunfire seemed a long way away now, something distant in another country. ‘You know, don’t you? You know what this is about.’

  ‘I know some of it,’ she said, and the anger was out of her, she sounded like an unhappy child. ‘The colonel’s in a fever. He talked a little.’

  Someone else he hadn’t bothered with. ‘Is he bad? Should I … ?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said gently. ‘He’ll be all right, I think, it’s just that stage. But he talked about it, it was on his mind. Don’t worry, you know I won’t tell anyone.’

  He looked at the grass and realized he did know. He could trust her as much as any of his friends, maybe even more. He said, ‘I’m sorry. I’ll give you all of it if you want, but you mustn’t even tell Jarvis. Nobody at all.’

  She said, ‘I know what “nobody” means. Tell me.’

  He did. Not about Angelo, because he’d given his word, but otherwise he told her everything because none of it mattered any more, and there wasn’t even hope. He said, ‘I just don’t know what to do. This Sunday was our first real chance, and thanks to the bloody army I can’t even use it.’

  She brushed grass off her skirts. ‘I wouldn’t say that. You could watch him, see who he’s meeting. You might even hear something.’

  ‘How can I?’ he said savagely. ‘Don’t you understand? Someone’s got to be in Kamara to watch this bastard arrive, and no one can do that but an officer.’

  ‘Or a woman,’ she said, and smiled.

  Kalmykoff watched with satisfaction from the slopes above the gorge. It didn’t really matter if Ryder saw him in the cavalry camp, but it was certainly simpler if he wasn’t there at all. Those two heads were very close together, and it seemed likely the dragoon wouldn’t be moving for quite some time.

  It was still strange he should be here when his fellows were all in camp. Was it possible he’d been trying to access their letter box? That he’d actually managed to discover something dangerous? Kalmykoff considered, then relaxed. No, he would hardly have brought the woman with him for something so secret. Ryder was merely doing what he always did, refusing to stay where he was meant to be and going his own way.

  Which, of course, was what Kalmykoff was here to stop. He cantered cheerfully in to the Light Brigade camp, an ordinary ADC on a black horse with a green saddlecloth and no bad associations for anyone. The men lay about like ragged street beggars in St Petersburg, but he picked his way through to the 13th Light Dragoons, chose an oafish looking type who was stirring something unpleasant in a pot, and said, ‘I say, can you point me out Troop Sergeant-Major Jarvis?’

  The oaf gaped, looked about him, then pointed at a stocky figure by a fire on the edge of the camp. ‘There, sir, shall I … ?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said soothingly. ‘You’re busy.’ He ambled back to the open ground, rode slowly along the camp’s perimeter, then reined to a stop in front of the TSM’s fire.

  ‘I say there,’ he said, leaning confidentially down from the saddle. ‘Can you help me a moment?’

  The creature gawped and scrambled at once to its feet, panting, ‘Yes, sir, of course, sir.’

  Kalmykoff concealed his amusement. The man was a troglodyte, little over five feet tall but as broad round the chest as a man could reach. The jowly face was reddened and creased with anxiety as he straightened his coat and said, ‘Troop Sergeant-Major Jarvis, sir.’

  The tedious insistence on title of the little man. ‘Sergeant-Major,’ he said gravely, touching his hat for the pleasure of watching the animal salute. No wonder he disliked Ryder, poor creature, they were species and worlds apart. ‘I wonder if you could explain to me the markers here and where each of the regiments is camped? They’re having a little difficulty with deliveries.’

  The NCO drew himself up with pride, adding perhaps two inches to his height. ‘Of course, sir. No trouble at all, sir. I’ll take you round now, sir.’

  ‘Oh, no need,’ he said. ‘But perhaps you could draw me a little map?’ He drew a paper and pen from his sabretache and offered them with a smile. ‘The Heavies too, if you can.’

  The sergeant-major took the sabretache with reverence. ‘I’ll be honoured, sir.’

  Kalmykoff watched without interest as he began to pencil clumsy black lines over the paper. It didn’t matter in the least what he drew, it was merely an excuse for casual conversation. ‘Sorry, I’m terribly bad at all the uniforms. Rather new at all this, actually. You’re a 13th Light Dragoon, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ said Jarvis, frowning with concentration as he drew. ‘Colonel Doherty. Didn’t you come out with us one day on patrol?’

  God in heaven. Kalmykoff stared at the bent head in consternation, but the man didn’t seem to see anything odd in the fact his horse and trappings were now so different. Perhaps he saw all senior officers as godlike beings who could dress and do as they liked.

  He pulled himself together. ‘That’s right. Matter of fact I made a few friends among your chaps that evening. You’re a colourful lot, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sir?’ said Jarvis, pausing to write in a number.

  ‘Well, a lot of characters, shall we say? There’s that trooper of yours everyone’s talking about – Ryder, is it? We all know about him.’

  Jarvis’s pencil stopped on the paper. ‘Ryder?’

  ‘Kind of name you can’t forget, isn’t it? Particularly the way he’s putting himself about with the ladies.’ He allowed himself a jocular little chuckle.

  ‘Ladies, sir?’

  Time to offer something more specific. ‘Well, so they say. Saw him with one just now, as it happens. Pretty little thing, blond hair and a blue dress. Cannon going off all round us, and there he is canoodling in the gorge!’

  Something extraordinary was happening to the sergeant-major. His face was becoming almost purple, and the pencil drooped unregarded in his hand. ‘Just now?’

  ‘Oh, I know. Have to say I’d no idea you fellows had so much time off, but he’s always about, isn’t he? I’ve seen him myself wandering about Balaklava.’

  ‘Have you?’ said Jarvis, and actually forgot the sir.

  He couldn’t pretend not to notice a growl like that. ‘I say, is there a problem? I thought you’d know all about it.’

  Jarvis bent back to the map, but his lines were even thicker and blacker than before. ‘No, sir. I didn’t.’

  On the hook, and time to reel him in. ‘Oh, no one’s complaining, we all find it terribly amusing. We’ve all been scamps in our time, haven’t we?’

  He rather doubted the sergeant-major had. He stood to hand back the sabretache, and whatever was gleaming behind those porcine little eyes certainly wasn’t humour. ‘Here you are, sir, I hope it’s all right.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ he said, studying the scrawl with admiration. ‘And you’ll forget about that other business, won’t you? I was talking out of turn.’

  The Neanderthal brow knitted in confusion. ‘But, sir, if he’s been camp-breaking …’

  ‘Then you’ll know how to stop it in future, won’t you? Look, I forgot myself, I was talking man-to-man, and we wouldn’t want to get anyone into trouble, would we?’

  The sergeant-major looked squarely at him, then stepped back and saluted. ‘No, sir.’

  First lie, and Kalmykoff knew he had him. He looked at the map again, said, ‘Here, Sergeant-major, I hope you’ll let me …’ and held out a crown.

  Good heavens, the man actually hesitated. ‘Just doing my job, sir.’

  Kalmykoff pressed the coin into his fleshy palm. ‘Oh, no, Sergeant-major,’ he said quite truthfully. ‘I think you’ll find you were doing mine.’

  13

  22 October 1854

  Sally remembered Sunday mornings. Toiling up Church Street, fingers crushed in her mother’s tugging hand, the feel of clean linen and the smell of lye. Gentry in carriages, discarded seamen with crutches, worn-down women going to pray the sea would give back their men, all had bustled up the street together to the cl
amour of bells. Now she was alone, her unwashed hair squashed under a Crim-Tartar headscarf, and she walked through vineyards to Kamara to the sound of guns.

  She hardly noticed them now. Six days the bombardment had gone on, every day less effectual than the last. Her patients told her it was pointless, that the Russians simply built up by night whatever the British destroyed by day, and the ships had given up completely. Everyone knew there’d be no attack now, or if there were it would come from the Russians. The men had been on stand-to in the saddles all night because of some rumour of an assault on Balaklava.

  It had helped in a way, and Jarvis had been too tired to argue when she told him she had to go to the hospital. The lie still made her uncomfortable. Jarvis had given her the army for a family, he’d saved her when she was destitute and there was no one else. The lie was a poor return for his kindness, but he’d never have let her do anything for Ryder, not even if it meant ending the war tomorrow. And that was sad, because her husband was a good man.

  She emerged from the vineyard and looked at the higgledy-piggledy scattering of houses dotted over the slopes above. The grandest were surrounded by tall trees and hedges so she could see only their orange-tiled roofs peeping out, the smallest had rough wooden fences strung with wire, but what connected all of them was the central chalk track that ran up like a spine to the ridge above. That must be the key. There would be little side lanes for people to reach the houses to right and left, but no rider could get to them without climbing that track. She needed only to watch it, note which lane this officer took, then follow him to learn the exact house. She had also to do it without attracting his attention, but she had come prepared.

  The clock of a distant church struck the three-quarters as she started up the track. Perhaps that was where most of the inhabitants were, since Kamara seemed deserted apart from herself. High on the ridge was a picquet of pink-trousered 11th Hussars, but they were watching the Causeway Heights, not the village, and she needn’t worry about them. A tethered goat bleated, and a gaggle of dirty geese honked from behind a fence, but even they fell quiet when she pulled on her gauntlets, took knife and shears from her basket and set about cutting furze. The stems were too tough now for forage, but it made good kindling and it was common to see peasant women collecting it.

  She worked with enthusiasm, and had almost forgotten what she was here for when she heard hooves on the track behind. She stooped to put more gorse in the basket and shot a quick glance sideways as she rose. A black horse, not a bay, but lots of officers had more than one. She saw no weaver hat either, only the blur of a forage cap as she turned back to her cutting, but that again was natural off duty. It could still be him.

  He was coming slowly and would turn off soon. She sawed hastily through more stems, piled them loosely in the basket to make it look fuller, then straightened to stretch her back. He was passing now, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the flash of a bright green saddlecloth. A doubt crept in, but she dismissed it at once. Who else would be coming to this deserted place when the British Army were at Divine Service? She dropped shears and gauntlets in the basket, put the knife in the pocket of her apron, and turned round.

  Only just in time. He was steering his horse down a path to the left, passing a white house with its own little orchard, and already disappearing out of sight. She hefted the basket on her hip and hurried after him.

  The path was narrow and dark with trees. She started cautiously down it, but there were brambles snaking right across the grass, and she had hardly taken six paces when one caught at her skirts, jerking her back in a tremendous rustling of leaves. The horseman looked back at once, but after only a quick glance he turned and rode on. She was an ordinary peasant woman, he’d seen her cutting furze and knew she was harmless.

  Relief made her want to laugh. How easy it was really! He had no suspicions, it didn’t matter if he saw her. Nor could she lose him. He couldn’t ride fast on a path so narrow and winding, and even if he vanished after turning a bend the houses were so far apart she’d still know which he’d gone into. She untangled herself without hurry and walked on.

  And there he went, turning off the track just before a bend. Thick trees made a screen between them, but there was obviously a house there, she’d just give it a glance as she walked casually past. She kept going, here was the bend, a quick look left – and her heart jumped. It wasn’t a house, just a little fenced paddock, and he was only dismounting to leave his horse. He’d be coming back, she couldn’t possibly stand and wait, she had no choice but to walk on by.

  She turned the bend, walked to the next, and stopped in frustration. This was hopeless. She could keep going, hope to hear him coming behind, then look round when his steps turned off, but he might take ages in the paddock, he might even come out and go the other way. Ryder would be here in twenty minutes and she’d have nothing to give him. He’d say it wasn’t her fault, but they’d still have to wait a whole week to get another chance.

  She wasn’t having it. She carefully unravelled three of the thickest and thorniest bramble stems, then calmly entangled them in the skirts of her own dress. She’d done it by accident once, so why not twice? Even if he was another five minutes he’d see nothing odd in a woman taking so long to free herself if she didn’t want to tear her only frock. She tossed her basket and shears lightly across the path as if she’d dropped them, then stood and waited.

  The distant clock struck nine. As the last strike faded she heard footsteps, and to her relief they were heading this way. She turned at once to the brambles, working at them with obviously ineffective bare fingers, and listening to the steps coming closer. She backed respectfully into the hedge to let him pass, but a pair of polished shoes stopped in front of her and a deep voice said something in a tongue she’d heard many times at Varna.

  Bulgarian! She looked up and saw not a staff officer, but an elegant figure in a brimless black hat and a green coat fastened at the neck like a cloak. He was a gentleman and presumably offering to help her, but damn and blast him, he’d come at the worst possible time. She smiled and said ‘Ne, ne’, plucking a fold of cloth away from the thorns to show how easy it would be, but the wretched thing snagged and caught, and now it was the Bulgar who smiled. He stooped to untangle the bramble at her hem, sliding a hand under the skirt to lift it clear. His fingers brushed her leg, and she hesitated, uncertain, but then the hand slid up to her thigh and she was sure. She wrenched backwards into the brambles, clenched her fist and punched him full in the face.

  He tottered back across the path, straightened and massaged his jaw, but the look on his face made her suddenly afraid. He was a Bulgarian gentleman, wealthy and in with the Russians, she was a woman and a Crim-Tartar peasant, and ought to be grateful for any sign of his favour. She said ‘No, wait,’ but he was already coming at her and his palm smashed with full force into the side of her face. Blood filled her mouth, a back tooth gone, he was pressing her back into the brambles, and his hands seized her wrists.

  ‘Kostoff!’ cried a voice. ‘Kostoff, nyet!’ and then words that turned blessedly to English. ‘For heaven’s sake, let her go!’ The Bulgar hesitated, his fingers tightening on her wrists, then he flung them away in disgust and stood back.

  Her heart was slamming in her chest. She took a deep breath, dragged her sleeve across her mouth, and steadied herself against the brambles. The voice was still talking, and sense returned as she realized who the speaker must be. The language was English, she was looking at a British officer in cloak and forage cap, but he was the traitor and their enemy.

  It was almost impossible to believe. The man was no more than thirty, with frank, clear features and a boyish smile, and when he saw her looking he nodded and touched his hat. ‘All right, my dear,’ he said, in a soothing voice that suggested his tone was all he expected her to understand. ‘Cut along now, it’s all right.’

  She pulled herself free of the last clinging thorns. The officer was placing a firm hand on the Bulgar’s
back to urge him along, but as she grabbed her basket to follow them she saw with amazement they were walking through a gated entrance right in front of her. They knew she was there and couldn’t fail to see them, but clearly considered her no more observant or dangerous than a mule.

  She let out her breath in a single, painful laugh. It was done. She had only to wait to point out the house, then she could bask in Ryder’s gratitude and leave the rest to him. The thought was warming, and as she walked back out to the central track she saw even the grey sky shimmer with a hint of sun.

  The padre closed his book and blinked as the parade dissolved into stampede. Ryder barged his way through the jostling bodies and was clear for the horse-lines where Moody was already waiting, Bolton and Jordan coming up behind. He released Tally and had a foot in the stirrup when a voice behind said, ‘And where d’you think you’re going?’

  Ryder brought down his boot with deliberate slowness. ‘Forage party, Sar’nt-major. Captain Marsh gave us permission last night.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Jarvis, not blinking. ‘Give your net to Fisk, I want you here.’

  It was unbelievable. ‘But Captain Marsh said –’

  Jarvis raised his voice. ‘And when Captain Marsh wishes to relieve me of my responsibilities he’ll tell me to my face. I need you to dig a grave.’

  Ryder’s temper rose to boiling point. ‘Captain Marsh gave me permission, and I’ll –’

  ‘You’ll stay right here, Private,’ said Jarvis. ‘You think the captain cares who goes on a forage party as long as it’s got?’ He tugged the forage net from Ryder’s mare and tossed it to Moody. ‘You’re in charge, Moody, and if you’re not back in an hour I’ll have the hide off you. There’s a war on, even if ex-corporal Ryder hasn’t noticed.’

  Moody smirked, toady that he was, and began to lead the others away. Ryder looked at Jarvis in helpless hatred, but the man was already turning and waving him to follow.