The Valley of Death

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Crossman placed himself under the command of the two Grenadier Guards subalterns who had gathered together the invalids and extras. There were groups of Turks to the 93rd’s left and right, who were already firing at the oncoming Russians, though the enemy were too distant to hit. The regiments’ wives were not far away, watching. God help a husband who disgraced himself on the battlefield. God help a wife who saw her husband fall and die. Crossman would rather the women were well out of it, but it was none of his business.

  The enemy was coming into the Fedioukine Valley out of the north-east from the direction of the Woronzoff Road. They found the 93rd blocking the mouth of the gorge by Kadikoi village which led to Balaclava harbour.

  Brigadier-General Sir Colin Campbell, pacing up and down on his horse in front of the 93rd, was giving his Highlanders some grave advice.

  ‘You must die where you stand, men!’ the general was saying. ‘There will be no retreat. Hold your ground. Let no Highlander fail in his duty. Wait for my orders. I want no man to charge the enemy without he receives my command to do so.’

  Sir Colin would have obedience to his command. His men would not turn and run. Nor would they become overeager, like the Scots Fusilier Guards at the Battle of the Alma. This regiment had surged up the hill without waiting: an act which had infuriated the rest of the Highland Brigade.

  The warning about running away was quite unnecessary. No Sutherland Highlander would show his heels before the command to retreat had been sounded. The warning about charging the enemy too soon, however, was required, since they were an eager bunch. Given their heads they would have been hurtling across the plain at that moment, their kilts flying, their mouths screaming Celtic curses at the oncoming Russian army.

  Crossman, in the front rank, looked down along the line of red coatees. Over half a thousand bayonets protruded out in front, the rising sun flashing on their wicked-looking steel tips. The white plumes of the Highlanders’ black ostrich-feather headgear waved in the morning breezes. There were grim faces below these bonnets, glaring out into the Balaclava plain.

  ‘Steady, my boys,’ cried Sir Colin Campbell.

  Just then over the hill from the north-east came many of the Turks from the redoubts, having been overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of Russian field artillery. Though the Turks in No. 1 redoubt had fought bravely, they had lost many men and could not hold the Russians any longer. They and the other redoubts had abandoned their guns and were running for their lives. Behind them was an astonishing sight. The Russian cavalry came over the rise in great volume – over thirty-four squadrons of horse.

  The enemy cavalry was supported by artillery and some twenty-five battalions of infantry.

  There was a sharp intake of breath along the thin red line as the Highlanders saw what they were facing.

  A cry came from a group of nearby Turkish infantry, as they loosed one last volley before running back down the gorge towards the ships. This distracted Crossman for a moment. Then some of the Scottish wives began chasing the Turks, yelling at them to come back and assist in the fight, one of the more sturdy women swinging at the fleeing soldiers with a heavy stick.

  ‘Get back here, ye dowiely cairds!’ she screeched. ‘Are ye men or rabbits?’

  This caused merriment in the ranks, with the woman’s husband calling, ‘Gie them what for, wifey!’ which raised another laugh.

  The Turks from the redoubts did not deserve this kind of treatment, though. Their bimbashi leader was wounded and bleeding profusely. They had had enough for one day. The ships in the harbour were their destination, a place of refuge from that mighty force which rode and tramped resolutely towards them.

  Crossman could hear the sound of boots pounding the earth now and remembered his remark to Peterson as they were marching towards the Russian-defended Alma heights.

  What’s the most frightening sound in the world, Peterson?

  What, Sergeant?

  The sound of 60,000 men marching towards you, while you stand waiting behind your guns. Even if your army is just as strong, or stronger, the stillness makes you feel alone. All you can hear are the boots of the enemy tramping inexorably closer. It is the sound of doom, Peterson. It is the sound of hell on the move. I’d always be an attacker before a defender.

  And that was how he felt now. He would have much rather been marching forward, than standing still, waiting for the attack. And though there were only 50,000 boots, there were also 6,000 hooves – and few friendly guns between the enemy and this small line of under a thousand men. His heart was in his throat and he had already forgotten his craving for opium. He believed, like most of the men there, he was about to die.

  The Russian cavalry in all its splendour fanned out before them. The Russian intention was plainly to cut and hold the Woronzoff Road, while their cavalry opened up the pass to Balaclava harbour for the onslaught of his troops. Colonel Ainslie now called for calm amongst his men.

  In the distance Crossman could see the Light Brigade at the end of the South Valley, the Heavy Brigade nearby but deeper in the valley. Russian round shot was beginning to fall amongst them. Lord George Paget was leading the Light Brigade and he halted his squadrons when they reached the second redoubt. There they waited, still under fire.

  Crossman began thinking about the young trooper in the 17th Lancers, Private Feltam, and wondered what the boy would be feeling now. Perhaps he was hoping that today, at least, they would be allowed to charge and show what they were worth.

  The Royal Horse Artillery were making movements over the valley as well. Their hessian boots, tucked into their tight trousers, gleamed in the sunlight. Crossman envied them their swashbuckling freedom of activity as C Troop swept by. In the distance, with the Heavy Brigade, who were also moving up the valley, was I Troop, with the wheels of its four 6-pounder guns and two 12-pounder howitzers raising the dust behind the horses. It made Crossman feel leaden-legged and rooted, somehow.

  ‘Look at yon sun,’ cried a 93rd soldier somewhere down the line. ‘It’ll blind the gunners.’

  Horizontal rays sliced through the valley now, from the east, which the allied guns had to face.

  Up on the Sapoune Ridge at the west end of both the North and South Valleys, which ran parallel with the high Woronzoff Road separating them, were the British staff officers. Lord Raglan was there in prime position, able to look down both valleys. Crossman had no doubt the Commander-in-Chief would be calm and watchful, if not decisive.

  There was the sound of a galloping horse from behind the line of infantry and Crossman turned to see Lavinia Durham, skirts and blouse-ribbons flying, come riding up from the harbour on a good horse. She went by the line of men, throwing up a wave, her face shining in excitement. Then she was past them, heading north-west, in grave danger of being caught up in the middle of the battle, but seemingly careless of her life. Crossman shook his head slowly but could not help a smile forming on his lips.

  ‘What a crazy woman,’ he murmured to himself. ‘She’ll be the death of somebody one of these days – probably herself.’

  16

  Before the eyes of the 93rd, I Troop came under immensely heavy fire both from the enemy guns and from skirmishers who were now trying to pick off the gunners. I Troop’s commanding officer, Captain Maude, twice lost his horse from under him. Wounded himself, he mounted a third horse, but Lord Lucan came up and ordered the troop to retreat with their guns. The spectators saw one of the gunners blown out of his saddle by round shot as the troop galloped to an area of safety.

  Now about four squadrons of Russian cavalry detached themselves from the main body and came towards the 93rd, their loose metal clinking in the silence. They looked numerous and formidable high up on their mounts. Their intentions were obvious and Crossman could hear many of the Highlanders swallowing hard, steeling themselves for the onslaught.

  Facing a cavalry charge when formed in a square was a terrifying enough ordeal, but they had a wide pass to protect and they were strung across it. E
ach man knew that he was vital, standing between the Russian army and the British ships tied helplessly to the wharfs of Balaclava harbour. If the enemy rode over him then the war might be lost. It is a hard thing to know your body is all that stands between the might of a foreign foe and the destruction of your army.

  When he glanced to his left Crossman noticed with surprise that Lieutenant Dalton-James had joined the line with several of his Rifle Brigade. In their rifle green they contrasted darkly with the red coatees of Crossman and the other soldiers along the line.

  Not far away Sergeant-Major McIntyre was having to reassure a new young recruit who had joined the regiment only three days before, having been sent out from England with others to replace those who had fallen at the Alma. The boy was voicing concern that he had never before killed a man and was afraid his finger would freeze on the trigger. It was a genuine worry of many men new to the battlefield.

  ‘Just imagine that’s Butcher Cumberland’s troops, sittin’ in them saddles, laddie,’ said McIntyre, speaking of the infamous general of the King’s army at the Battle of Culloden, ‘and yon officer is the Duke o’ Cumberland himself. Ye’ll soon be blastin’ hell out o’ them.’

  The rattling, jingling horsemen came closer. There is nothing like high danger to ward off the savage clawing of an opium tiger. When you feel you are about to die all else becomes relatively unimportant. The need for laudanum prowled somewhere in Crossman’s mind, but it had been pushed back now, into a dark corner, and lurked rather than attacked.

  Sir Colin Campbell had a few more words with the battalion. Crossman had already loaded his rifle with ball and powder, had rammed down, and had placed a percussion cap on the nipple. When the order came, he raised his rifle to his shoulder and took aim with the leaf sight. It took great effort, he not being in prime health, but habit helped. The long dark barrel of the weapon pointed at the enemy who seemed to be massed in a great horde of yellow-grey bodies on the backs of their chargers.

  He cocked the hammer.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mrs Durham, still riding hard, on the far left of the battlefield. She had made it through to a high place from which she could watch the slaughter. Crossman hoped she would not have to witness his own demise, but felt deep down that his time had come.

  ‘Ninety-third! Damn all that eagerness, I’ll not have it,’ roared Sir Colin, as the regiment showed an inclination to rush out to meet the oncoming cavalry. ‘Wait for them! Wait for them!’

  A slight movement went down the line after the rebuke as the soldiers tried to shuffle off the tension. Perhaps some of the more educated minds were at that time drawing parallels with the stand of the Spartans at the pass of Thermopylae. There too several hundred had stood firm in the face of a mighty army of thousands. The conclusion was not comforting. The Spartans had held the enemy – for a time – but were eventually overrun and were slaughtered to a man.

  The men along the line hardly appeared to be breathing now, they were so still. It was as if someone had told them they were to play statues. The waiting was almost unbearable. Seconds stretched to minutes, a minute seemed an hour. Wait a bit, wait a bit . . .’ whispered the man next to Crossman. A quick glance told the sergeant that the solder was simply speaking to himself, keeping his nervousness in check. Each man had his own method of getting through the waiting.

  In contrast the Russians thundered noisily closer on their mounts. The legs of their horses gathered speed, until they were at the full gallop. Crossman could sense the excitement amongst the riders, as they came hurtling on, the wind rushing past their faces, any long hair streaming behind them. They were exhilarated, full of the thrill of the charge. Crossman had once owned a hunter, knew the emotions of a flat-out gallop, which must have been twice as strong when armed and charging forwards to kill men rather than foxes. They must have felt invulnerable, mighty, invincible.

  The sensation of facing a cavalry charge, standing rooted to the ground, was the complete opposite. Crossman felt exposed and unprotected, like a straw man standing before an oncoming rush of fire. They loomed high, large and came on fast and furious. It seemed to him that nothing could stop these mounted devils, whose impetus would surely carry them over the whole battalion of Highlanders, crushing bodies beneath their hooves, drumming flesh and blood hard into the earth.

  Their sabres drew the level rays of the sun to the honed edges of the blades, which flashed like mirrors. Their weapons were horizontal now: out before them like the barbed stings of giant insects. The whole body of them bristled with sharp weapons. Their horses snorted in the cold air, pumping sprigs of steam through their nostrils, the leather creaking on their backs. A mass of muscle and bone, the horsemen came on like an impressive engine of death, almost as if they were each part of a single body, a great monster with a thousand arms and legs.

  ‘Steady, lads!’

  The faces of the enemy were visible now. Crossman picked a man: a hussar riding a dun-coloured Viatka. He could see the rider’s eyes staring back at him, as if they had chosen each other in single combat. He was small with a round face below his black headgear, weather-creased, with crow’s-feet at the corners of the dilated eyes and mouth. The man’s nostrils were flared with excitement, dark and cavernous.

  The rider’s sword looked threatening and deadly, the point glinting in the sharp morning light.

  ‘Aim!’ came the order.

  Crossman murmured, ‘Bloody hussars.

  ‘FIRE!’

  The volley ripped from the long row of rifles. There was a ripple down the line as the Miniés kicked shoulders. Gunsmoke bloomed and was carried away on the breeze.

  This first volley hit the oncoming riders like a heavy sea-wave, knocking them back in their saddles. Some riders dropped to the ground. Wounded men spun on the backs of their horses, let weapons fall to the earth, slumped over their mounts. Several dead remained where they sat, held on by their seized legs, their frozen grips.

  Some of the riding dead were carried away by their panicking horses, who had immediately felt the change in their masters and knew all control had gone.

  Like a sudden strong wind bends wheat, so that volley had bent the horse riders. Like a sudden strong wind carries away chaff, so the instantly killed were carried off. Like a sudden strong wind leaves shocked victims in its path, so the Russian cavalry reeled and sucked in breath.

  ‘FIRE!’

  A soldier with a double-barrelled weapon of some foreign design leaned forward over Crossman’s shoulder and fired at the same time as the Connaught Rangers sergeant. Crossman’s ear rang with the sound of the shot, his cheek was scorched with the flash of the powder. Seeing that Crossman had been burned the man said something quickly in what sounded like Hungarian or Polish, which Crossman took to be an apology of some kind.

  The Russian cavalry was checked again by this second volley hitting them like a blizzard of stones. This was even more devastating in its effects than the first. Horses whinnied, fell kicking and screaming to the ground, their hooves flailing and catching the flanks of other horses. Some men shouted guttural curses. Others died with strangled yells, fell under the stamping legs of their comrades’ mounts, were trampled into the earth. Chaos ruled as men disentangled themselves, their weapons and tack caught up with that of their neighbours.

  Crossman let out a grunt of relief as he loaded his weapon for the third time, mechanically but surely.

  ‘I hate those bastard Russians,’ snarled the foreign soldier in satisfaction, Crossman glanced at him and he added, ‘I am Polish. They massacre my people.’

  The two men shouldered their rifles and took aim for the third time.

  This crashing volley was a little ragged and it rippled down the line like a fusillade. Still it did its work and now the Russian cavalry wheeled to the left, as if to try to come round on the flank of the Highlanders. The grenadier company immediately wheeled round as easily as a farmyard gate on oiled hinges, to face the horsemen again. These riflemen now f
ired volley after volley into the Russian riders.

  Crossman quickly became weary as the strength needed to ram down the bullet was sapping him. His weapon was hot from firing and the barrel had subsequently expanded a little, but still it was not an easy task to get the conical ball down the barrel with the ramrod. Lifting it to his shoulder each time was physically exhausting. Anticipating the savage kick when he fired the rifle was mentally exhausting. He was never so glad as to see the Russian cavalry start to retreat. Hussars rode away into the advancing morning, beaten by foot soldiers.

  They had had enough. He had had enough. A cheer went up from the Highlanders. Bonnets were thrown high into the air. They were rightly exhilarated. Crossman felt a wind of excitement sweep through him. They had survived, with no casualties so far as he could see. The Russian cavalry had been stopped as if it had hit a stone wall. It was a glorious victory – a small one on a large battlefield – but nevertheless an action which he knew would be remembered.

  If only it could have been the Rangers, he thought. How proud then, my boys.

  But it had been the Highlanders. It was their day, and though he would not be especially remembered for it, like most of the invalids, Rifle Brigade and others, he knew he had taken part. It would not be a piece of his regiment’s history, would not go on the Rangers’ colours, yet he had been one of the line. His rifle had kicked, spat lead, blossomed smoke in the face of the enemy. It was his day too, damn it.

  Crossman looked along the line to where his father sat on his grey, looking pompously pleased with himself.

  ‘Not you,’ murmured Crossman to himself, ‘the men.’

  His elder brother was there too, his face shining with elation. Crossman felt his heart melt as he regarded James and was glad for him. He felt like shouting ‘Three cheers for Lieutenant Kirk!’ but refrained. It would not do to raise one man’s name over others. They had all taken part, even those on horses, he conceded, though their involvement was not as great. If the worst came to the worst they could ride away. In retreat they would not need to rely on the strength and speed of their own legs. They had not had to look up into the faces of the enemy. They had sat on an equal level with their opponents, staring over the heads of those who had been told to stand or die.