The Valley of Death

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

She knew she was a strange being, for she had seen the Heavy Brigade lose men to the sword, and though she had felt sorrow she had accepted the losses. In reality one death should be as tragic as a thousand. Yet, the charge of the Light Brigade was something horrific. What had that French general said yesterday? It is magnificent, but it is not war. He had summed up her feelings about it all.

  Crossman undressed and put his pistol by the straw mattress, within reach. Then the pair of them got beneath the blanket with his greatcoat on top for extra warmth. There she snuggled in his arms, allowing herself to be coddled. Her thoughts still swam around in a disturbed way, but at least she had some arms about her for comfort.

  He was soon slumbering, had probably been exhausted by the day’s events, but she remained awake. The moon shone through the small mean window, throwing a bar of light across the floor. Her thoughts were tangled, like a jumble of brambles in her head, and their barbs would not allow her peace of mind.

  At one point she began to slip away into a doze when a movement suddenly caught her eye. There was a flash of light from the doorway, as a dark shape stood there. Her mind immediately went to the scavengers on the battlefield. This figure looked like one of them. Slowly, ever so slowly, the shape entered the room. She saw now, as it crossed that bar of moonlight, that the figure was carrying an unsheathed sword, along which the moonbeam rippled.

  Her eyes were transfixed by the wicked-looking point of the sword, as it drew ever closer to Crossman’s throat. She was certain now that this was an assassin. Murder was about to be committed.

  With a swiftness that astonished even herself, she reached across the sleeping form of her lover and snatched up his pistol. Cocking it, she pointed it at the advancing figure. It was on her mind to call a warning, but somehow she sensed that this would do no good, that the assassin would keep coming no matter what. He was tensed like a cat about to leap.

  She squeezed the trigger of the pistol.

  The sound of the shot was like thunder.

  Crossman woke with the sound of the shot ringing in his ears and the smell of the gunpowder burning his nostrils.

  ‘What is it?’ he cried.

  A man stood there before him, his form cut through by a blade of moonlight. Something fell from his hand and clattered on the floor. A sword. Then with a final groan the figure fell into a heap and lay there, still illuminated.

  Crossman jumped out of bed and inspected the body, then he turned to Mrs Durham.

  ‘Are you all right, Lavinia?’

  ‘I – I think so. Is it Bertie?’

  ‘Who?’ He looked down. ‘The dead man, you mean?’

  ‘I’ve killed him then?’ she said in a faltering tone.

  ‘Yes, but it isn’t your Bertie. It’s a Cossack. There’ll be more somewhere around . . .’

  He went to the window and looked out. There was no one to be seen. Perhaps the others, if there had been others, had slipped away as soon as they heard the sound of the shot. Bloody Cossacks. When would they leave him alone? His luck could not hold out for ever. If they kept coming at him like this, one of them would get him eventually.

  He checked downstairs and discovered the door open but the room empty.

  Going back up again, he found Mrs Durham sitting up on the mattress, shivering. She still had the pistol in her hands. He took it from her gently.

  ‘I thought it was Bertie,’ she said, ‘come to kill you.’

  ‘And you would have killed him to protect me?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  Crossman shook his head wearily. ‘I thought you said Bertie didn’t desire you. I thought you said you had an understanding with him.’

  ‘Well, he’s been feeling a little more possessive lately. I don’t – I don’t know why, I was certain it was him. He put his arm around me, you know, after the battle. I was crying and it upset him.’

  ‘Lavinia,’ Crossman said firmly, ‘you know this has gone far enough now. We must stop this liaison. We’ve both been very foolish, indulging ourselves like this, blaming misfortune, using nostalgia and other such excuses to do what we felt we had a right to do. We had our chance and we lost it. You are a married woman.’

  ‘Will we have to say goodbye?’

  ‘You’ll find compensations,’ he said practically.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I will. Women are good at that, you know. I shall forget you ever existed. Just as I did before, but then you had to pop up like a puppet right in front of my eyes and start it all up again.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s all my fault?’

  She stared at him. ‘It has to be, Alexander. You’re the man. Men are always held responsible for everything. Women are foolish creatures with the minds of sparrows, easily led astray. I’m afraid you’re the blackguard here, sir.’

  She rose and dressed herself. Crossman dressed too and escorted her back to her house. She turned and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Goodbye, Alex dear.’

  ‘Goodbye, Lavinia.’

  Then she was gone, into the blackness of the house, and he turned and made his way back to the hovel.

  He wanted to go straight back to his bed, for he was feeling fatigued by the night’s events but he could not leave that body on the floor of the room. When he got there he dragged the corpse down the stairs and left it lying in the doorway to the hovel, ready to take out when morning came. Perhaps he could get one of the marines to collect it?

  In the morning the body was gone. Instead there was Major Lovelace, bent over a tin bowl, splashing water on his face. He looked up as Crossman descended the stairs, reaching for a rag to wipe off the soapy water.

  ‘Ah, Sergeant, you’re up.’

  Crossman was still staring at the spot in front of the doorway, wondering if it had all been a dream.

  ‘You’re looking for the Cossack, I take it,’ said the major, wiping his hands. ‘I had the corpse removed quite early. That was a good shot. You got him right in the heart. I assume it was in a darkened room.’

  ‘One patch of moonlight,’ murmured Crossman.

  ‘Excellent. Any more of the beggars?’

  ‘Didn’t see any.’

  ‘Well, once again the doughty Sergeant Crossman defeats his traditional foes,’ cried Major Lovelace, grinning.

  Crossman went to the table and took a long draught of water from his bottle.

  Afterwards he said, ‘I’m not sure how it became traditional.’

  ‘No one is ever sure of how these things come about. Suffice to say you will go down in Cossack legend as the evil antihero, to be eternally hunted by father and son. Mothers will use you to scare their young into obedience. Grandfathers will tell strange tales about you to their grandchildren in front of blazing log fires. You have slipped into myth in your own lifetime, Sergeant Crossman. You are a monster.’

  ‘I feel like a monster today, sir. Are there any developments on yesterday’s battle? Is there to be another today?’

  ‘At the moment it looks as if the Russians are digging in, which leads me to another point. Are you fit enough yet to go out into the field again?’

  ‘Alone, or with my men?’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  ‘I might be fit enough to do some work on my own, with Ali, but I’m not sure I could control Wynter at the moment.’

  Major Lovelace made a gesture with his head.

  ‘Unfortunately you will need Wynter and the others. We’re thinking of sending you out for a good long time. The Russians will be using the road to Yalta for their supply lines. I want you and your men to sabotage as much traffic as possible. You will live wild for the foreseeable future. How does that sound to you, in your condition?’

  Crossman thought it might be politic for him to be out of the way for a while, until Mrs Durham settled down to becoming a model wife. If he were here, showing his face, their resolve might weaken. He had had a taste of her fruits and his appetite was still not satiated. It would be easy to drink a little too much brandy and go seeki
ng her favours, now that all the barriers were down between them. And perhaps she on her part had not really had enough of him? Better to be out of harm’s way.

  ‘It sounds all right. I should like to be back in action again. If I spend too long in that bed I’ll grow old and die.’

  ‘Good man. Will you go up to the lines and bring down the riffraff today?’

  Crossman smiled. ‘I’ll fetch them at noon.’

  ‘When you’re all together, I’ll brief you properly.’

  22

  Life in the trenches around Sebastopol was not good, especially in a wet autumn, with heavy dews and the cold morning mists. Wynter, Clancy and Devlin were obviously overjoyed to see Sergeant Crossman walking towards them. He might be taking them to certain death, but that would have been more pleasant than picquet duty or manning ditches with the guns crashing around them all day long.

  Crossman had hitched a ride on an araba cart the five miles from Kadikoi to the trenches.

  ‘Come on up, my boys,’ he called to them cheerily. ‘Let’s see your smiling faces.’

  Crossman was having to keep his head down at that point, for there was a constant exchange of guns firing between the trenches and the distant Sebastopol defences, with little protection from this fire, apart from shallow holes and hastily dug ditches with loose-earth dykes. The three soldiers joined him and they ran back to a safer point where they could talk, though the pounding of the guns still battered their ears. Wynter looked ecstatic.

  ‘Oh, are we glad to see you, Sergeant. You know what it’s like here? Three or four nights out of bed, and when you do get there it’s just cold ground.’

  ‘Poor old Wynter,’ said Clancy. ‘O’ course he lives in the lap of luxury back home in England.’

  The others laughed.

  Crossman knew that even when back in Britain most of these hardy farm boys lived a life of privation and deprivation, spending most of their time out of doors because their parents’ dwellings were often one-roomed hovels with a tiny floor space. The floor would be dirty and any fire would be an open one, throwing out sooty smoke. Life in the trenches could not have been so vastly different from normal life in Britain.

  ‘Well, it might not have been luxury,’ growled Wynter, ‘but at least the inn wouldn’t be far away.’

  ‘You’ve got the canteen here,’ replied Devlin, baiting Wynter further. ‘What more could you want?’

  ‘It’s not like having four walls and a nice blazing log fire, now is it?’ Wynter argued. ‘When I drink my ale I like a bit of warmth and light and fine company.’

  ‘That’s enough now,’ said Crossman. ‘We’ve got company ourselves and it’s not so fine.’

  Lieutenants Parker and Howard, two Connaught Ranger officers, came striding across from the 88th’s rest area wearing undress caps and the thick, warm, ample greatcoats that many officers wore. Before Parker could say anything Crossman handed him a note from Major Lovelace. The missive released Crossman’s four soldiers from regimental siege duties, placing them under his command. Parker showed it to Howard, who lifted his head and stared disdainfully at the words.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Howard, who moved in very high social circles, ‘Im inclined to think this Major Lovelace is overreaching himself.’

  Crossman remained silent. He knew that any comment he had to make would only inflame the situation. Howard was a terrible snob and no doubt outranked Lovelace in civilian life. There was the possibility that at some time Howard would have the opportunity to cut senior officers like Lovelace dead in some social gathering. Parker on the other hand had come up from the ranks and while in the siege lines was permitted to be in Howard’s company. Back in England Howard would not have deigned to wish Parker a good morning.

  ‘Well,’ said Parker, ‘I have no choice but to obey the note. You may take your men, Sergeant Crossman, to carry out these clandestine duties of yours.’

  Lieutenant Howard said, ‘Is Lord Raglan aware of what is going on behind his back?’

  Parker gave his friend a worried look.

  Crossman stared Howard directly in the eyes. ‘If you were thinking of telling him, sir, you would be well advised to speak to General Buller first.’

  Howard looked down his nose. ‘When I want the advice of a sergeant, which I cannot conceivably imagine happening in this lifetime, I shall order it forth from that individual. Now take your insolent eyes from my face, soldier, or you may find yourself in circumstances you will heartily regret.’

  When Crossman remained unflinching before him, Howard looked as if he were about to explode. Parker took the lieutenant’s arm and led him a few paces away. There was a short quiet conversation between the two, then Howard – with a final glare at Crossman – strode away.

  Parker came back. ‘You have my permission to leave now, Sergeant,’ he said.

  Crossman looked around him. ‘Peterson,’ he said. ‘Where’s Peterson?’

  ‘He’s with Captain Goodlake’s sharpshooters,’ said Parker. ‘They’re up near the Careenage Ravine.’

  Crossman was a little mystified. ‘Goodlake’s sharpshooters? Has he joined the Guards then?’

  A novel concept had recently come to fruition. The 1st Division had formed a band of sharpshooters, some sixty men who moved about in scattered order ahead of the picquet lines. It was their job to pick off enemy gunners and soldiers on the defences of Sebastopol, by using cover and their own initiative, often scraping out a hollow for themselves and remaining in position. Sometimes they would be out all night and day, in order to achieve an objective.

  The Guards, under Captain Goodlake, had also raised such a force, but Goodlake’s sharpshooters moved around in close order: a fighting unit that like Crossman’s peloton, was free of any attachments to the main body of the brigade.

  ‘The Guards borrowed a few of the lst’s sharpshooters this morning,’ explained Lieutenant Parker. ‘They were light-handed due to illness. Being a close order unit, they need to keep the numbers tight. Goodlake expects to find more sharpshooters from amongst his brigade today, but the patrol was due to go out at dawn.’

  Devlin said, ‘If they’re using other regiments the Guards must be desperate for men, begging your pardon, sir.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree, Corporal Devlin,’ replied Parker. ‘Even Lieutenant Howard could not get into the Guards.’

  Crossman noticed a twitch in the lieutenant’s expression when he said this and the sergeant realized that this fact afforded Parker some amusement. He might be Howard’s siege companion, but he knew what Howard really thought of him and his station. Parker obviously gained a certain satisfaction knowing that Howard, for all his pomp and circumstance, and his father being an earl, was not good enough to get into the Guards. It made Crossman wonder what Howard had done to blot his script. Perhaps even the Guards realized he was an idiot.

  At that moment a company sergeant-major came riding on a mule towards the group. He looked excited. Dismounting he fought for breath.

  ‘Sir,’ cried the sergeant-major, ‘they’re engaging to the north-west, up beyond Mikriakoff Glen.’

  Other off-duty officers and men began to gather around the small group, having heard the sergeant-major’s remarks.

  ‘Who’s engaging?’ asked Parker, quickly. ‘General Codrington’s main force?’

  That the Division’s 1st Brigade should be in a battle without the 2nd Brigade, to which the 88th belonged, was clearly upsetting to Lieutenant Parker.

  ‘Damn it,’ he cried, before the other man could answer his question. ‘Why do we always miss out?’

  ‘No, sir, it’s only the 1st Brigade’s picquets at the moment. And the 2nd Division’s picquets – Major Champion’s lot. There’s fierce fighting going on though. I were up in the Lancaster Battery visiting a pal of mine. There’s about six battalions of Russian infantry come up from St George’s Ravine.’

  ‘Damn, damn, will they come down here, do you think?’

  ‘Could well do, sir,�
� said the sergeant-major, his eyes shining with hope. ‘The picquets is fell in, working in skirmishing order.’

  Crossman and all those listening knew what that meant and the sergeant’s heart began to beat a little faster. Perhaps this was a major attack. In which case surely the Connaught Rangers would see some real action at last. They were desperate to distinguish themselves. Many other regiments were already crowing over their victories, not least the 93rd, who always seemed to be in the thick of the fighting. If the picquet commander had formed his company in skirmishing order . . .

  A company of picquets – now due to illness and death down to sixty men in most battalions – normally worked in pairs well out ahead of the main force, placed so they could see any enemy approach clearly on the horizon. Each pair would be positioned behind some natural or man-made cover.

  One picquet would go out on reconnaissance occasionally to check visually and listen for any movement from the enemy. His partner would be in touch with the next pair along the picquet line, so there was constant contact down the whole line. Early warning would be given by rifle shots and the picquet commander would then form his men up in two ranks, in extended order, to try to delay the advance as long as possible so that the main force could organize.

  ‘Was it just the picquets, sarn-major?’ asked the 88th captain. ‘Do you think it’ll come to something? Did the Russians have artillery with them?’

  The sergeant-major was as eager as the rest of them that they should engage.

  ‘Artillery, yes, sir. I saw the green guns.’

  ‘Green guns, by Jove,’ said the captain. ‘That’s them all right. I wondered what all those bells and the cheering was about this morning, coming from Sebastopol! They’re making an assault, I’ll lay a wager on it.’

  Crossman knew what all the men were hoping, that this was not just a probing force, come out of Sebastopol to test their defences, but a major attack force. The boys were eager to settle the war here and now. Soldiers despise waiting around in thorough boredom for something to happen.

  ‘It weren’t just the picquets who engaged either,’ continued the sergeant-major. ‘From the Lancaster Battery I saw another battalion of Russians come up along Careenage Ravine. They was stopped by Goodlake’s sixty sharpshooters.’