The Valley of Death

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Crossman said, ‘I’ve sent Ali to warn Wynter and Peterson that you’re coming through.’

  Clancy shook his head with a white, toothy smile.

  ‘If I can’t slip past those two, I’ll never get through the Russians, will I?’

  ‘All right. Do you want my revolver, Clancy?’ asked Crossman. ‘You can have it if you wish.’

  ‘No, Sergeant – if I use a firearm, I’m done for.’

  ‘Then good luck, Private.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Clancy said, and slipped out into the night.

  Clancy had felt nervous as Crossman briefed him. So much – the lives of his brothers-in-arms – depended on the success of his mission. However, now that he was in a familiar darkness, as much a part of the night as a bat, he felt reassured, certain that once again his talents as an assassin would see him through. His shape melded with the deeper shadows and shades of the dark hours. A watcher might think a fox was sweeping by, rather than a man.

  He reflected, as he drifted silently down between rocks and trees, that there was another man inside him who was a killer of British soldiers.

  This certain other Clancy had assassinated three British soldiers once upon a time when he was a member of the Thugs in India. But that had been war too. In those days he had been an Indian. Now he was an Irishman. A man of two halves, he kept one side of himself completely separate from the other. The Indian did some things, the Irishman others, and though the twain were like twin brothers they were definitely two completely different men sharing the same body.

  This state of mind was not difficult for a man who had been with the mystics of India, steeped in oriental sorcery, a man who could put himself in a trance simply by staring at a lamp flame, a man whose mind was flexible and pliable, not rigid like that of most British soldiers.

  In any case he did not consider himself a murderer. You did what was necessary in war and then you put it to one side. Uncomplicated justification.

  There was a glow in the sky at the bottom of the slopes. The Russians had lit small fires behind their natural rock fortress walls, which would make it more difficult for him to pass through their ranks. Clancy began to move more slowly, in an exaggerated gliding motion, knowing that he had hours of darkness around him. Patience was his friend, impetuosity his enemy.

  Some of the men were asleep, curled up beneath rocks in their greatcoats. One or two sat around the fires, tending them with sticks. There was the smell of cooking vegetables in the air. An officer’s tent stood some way off, under a clutch of trees, a lamp or candle glowing from within.

  Clancy drifted along the line, found a fire where a single soldier had his back to him. Clancy then moved out and through the sleeping bodies, stepping quietly between them. In a short while he was through to the other side. There he ran up against his first real obstacle, two sentries guarding the narrow exit down to the road far below. He slipped his knotted cord from his pocket and eased himself closer to his targets.

  One of the men was talking softly but animatedly to the other, using his free hand to emphasize a point. His other hand held his musket at the balance point in the centre. He kept looking at his companion, who nodded and grunted occasionally, as if he wanted agreement for all he said. Clancy waited in patient silence for the right moment.

  Finally, there came a point when the two men were about three yards apart and the talkative one stood just in front and to the right of the listener. The front one was still jabbering away, staring out into the night now, speaking no doubt of domestic problems for which he required the other’s sympathy and support. The listening soldier actually looked very bored and lit a pipe while the other prattled on and on.

  Clancy drifted up behind the one with the pipe, whose right hand was on the bowl of his pipe. While he was in that position Clancy could do nothing. The Irish-Indian waited, waited, waited, his forearms crossed and the knotted loop at the ready. Finally the man’s hand dropped down to his side. Immediately Clancy’s cord was round his throat and his knee pressed in the soldier’s back to get leverage.

  The man’s larynx was instantly crushed as he arched backwards and he let out the faintest of coughs. The talking soldier did not even pause in his chatter, no doubt taking the sound as one of those grunts of agreement. A split second after the cord was twisted on tight like a tourniquet, Clancy let go one hand and caught the musket before it hit the ground. A few moments after this the man was in a coma, on his way to death, the blood supply to his brain having been arrested. Clancy lowered him to the earth and laid his musket across his breast.

  The Russian’s glowing pipe was still gripped between his teeth, his jaw locked hard as if to try to keep his life spirit from escaping through his mouth.

  Clancy then went up behind the talkative one, who had turned to look over his left shoulder. Clancy slipped downwards to the man’s right. The soldier now paused in his speech, a puzzled expression forming on his face, when with a double-handed sweeping movement Clancy drove his bayonet sideways through the soldier’s neck.

  Again Clancy caught the musket before it hit the ground. The man gargled, staggered two or three paces, and then fell thrashing on the floor. Clancy brained him behind the right ear with one blow from the butt of the musket.

  It was all over with the minimum of fuss in less than two minutes.

  Clancy retrieved his weapons and then set off down towards the road. On the way he still ran into small units of Russians but it was now open country and he was able to circumnavigate any trouble. Soon he was on the track and heading back towards Sebastopol.

  All went fairly smoothly until he turned a corner, not expecting any company, to find a unit of infantry camped in the middle of the road. Why they were there, he had no idea, but he was seen and challenged by a sentry standing not two yards away from him. One or two men at the fire turned their heads and then looked expectantly at the sentry.

  Clancy’s boyish face broke into a charming smile and he blinked in the firelight.

  ‘Hello,’ he said to the grim soldier. ‘Sorry . . .’

  Clancy drove his bayonet deep into the chest of the soldier, then slipped into the bushes at the side of the road. A minute later muskets crashed and shots snicked through the shrubs and trees and whined off rocks. A hot ball seared Clancy’s arm, causing tears to start to his eyes. He blinked and bit his lip to stop himself from crying out, for though the pain was minimal Clancy had a very low pain tolerance threshold.

  He licked the wound, tasting his own blood, to feel how deep it was. Once he knew it was only a small gouge, he began running, putting distance between himself and the Russian soldiers. He saw lamps floating from the road into the bushy area and knew they were searching for him, but he was soon out of their reach and on his way back to his own lines.

  It took him most of the night to reach the gorge which led down to Balaclava harbour. As he approached he deliberately made a noise about it and was challenged by a Scottish picquet. He emerged dark and almost invisible in front of the sergeant who had issued the challenge. The Scot jumped nervously.

  ‘It’s me, Scotchman – Private Clancy of the 88th Foot.’

  ‘Where have you been, mon, dressed and painted like a damn phantom of the night?’ said the Scot, testily, as Clancy was allowed past the picquets. ‘Out for a wee stroll?’

  ‘Mind your own bloody business,’ said Clancy, hurrying past. ‘You want to get a lady into trouble?’

  The 83rd picquets laughed at this.

  On reaching the hovel Clancy found to his relief that Major Lovelace’s batman was there.

  ‘Wake the major, quickly, Private,’ said Clancy. ‘I’ve got something to tell him.’

  Having been roused himself by this strange black-faced creature coming out of the darkness, the batman protested.

  ‘I certainly ain’t goin’ to disturb the major for no piccaninny, that’s for sure . . .’

  Clancy grabbed the man by the collar and hauled his face close.

&
nbsp; ‘You insult me, you insult my father,’ said Clancy, quietly. ‘I’ve killed three men tonight, don’t make me do it a fourth time because it might get to be a habit.’ He ran a finger across his throat, taking some of the fire ash with it and leaving a pale mark like a slash.

  ‘The major won’t be happy,’ gargled the private, unimpressed. ‘He’ll ’ave my eyes and liver.’

  ‘What’s going on down here?’ asked a voice from the stairs. ‘What’s all this commotion? Is that you, Private Clancy, under all that soot?’

  The batman looked smugly at Clancy, as if to say: I told you so.

  Major Lovelace emerged, dressed in vest and Oxfords. He had a pistol in his hand. Clancy saluted.

  ‘Major, Sergeant Crossman and the rest are trapped by a regiment of Russian soldiers. They sent me to find you and ask can you get them away? We attacked a wagon carrying money to Sebastopol – pay for the troops the sergeant thinks – and the Russians want it back.’

  ‘I expect they do,’ said Lovelace, a smile twitching in the corners of his mouth. ‘Where is the sergeant?’

  ‘Few miles north-east of here. I can take you there, sir.’

  ‘And the money?’

  ‘Ah, well, we were all going to be rich, but that was when we thought we’d got away with it. A goatherd led the Russians to us and the sergeant made us burn the money. Said he didn’t want it to fall back into enemy hands. The Russians are going to be very angry when they find out what he’s done.’

  ‘I expect Wynter’s none too pleased either,’ said Major Lovelace.

  Clancy’s eyes opened wide at this remark. Here was an officer who not only knew the names of the men, but knew their dispositions and character as well. It gave Clancy heart for the British army.

  ‘Wynter’s hopping mad,’ he said, smiling. ‘He’s crying in his soup.’

  ‘I thought he would be. Well, young Clancy, let us get some men together and go and rescue your brave sergeant and his merry men. Wilson,’ he said to his batman, ‘my sheepskin, if you please.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the crestfallen Wilson. ‘At once, sir.’

  27

  Crossman and his men had a weary time of it now that they were two men short. Sentry duty had always cut deeply into their resources of strength and stamina, even when there had been six of them. Now the sergeant was down to four men including himself. It was necessary to have at least two guards posted at all times and for the remainder to keep watchful. On occasions the sentries would call the off-duty men from their beds or work, to help thwart an attempted attack.

  Luckily with only two narrow access points to the rock shelf the Russians were easily held at bay. Their attempts at storming the British peloton were not very serious. They seemed content to wait until morale broke down or the British were starved into submission.

  Crossman guessed that the commander of the Russian forces besieging them had discovered that someone had escaped from the croft. A bugle had sounded in the middle of the night and men are not roused from their sleep for trivialities, even in a Russian army on active service. The commander was obviously deeply unhappy about something.

  A quick reconnoitre by Crossman revealed that the enemy had posted many more sentries than they had previously, some of them facing the trail. They were obviously expecting an attack from behind them. Clancy had left a calling card, or they would not have known he had been through them. Either that, or they had caught him, and wanted to display him.

  For their part, Crossman’s little band kept up their vigilance.

  The morning after Clancy’s run Crossman spoke with Ali concerning the success or failure of this move.

  ‘Do you think he made it, Ali?’ asked the sergeant. ‘I’m wondering about that commotion in the early hours.’

  ‘I think he get through, Sergeant. If not we hear shots. They not bother too much saying “Hello” to Private Clancy. They just shoot him.’

  ‘Maybe they’re holding him as a hostage?’

  ‘Why they need hostage? They have us all?’

  Crossman nodded. ‘You’re right. I’m sure they realize we would not vacate our stronghold for a hostage. So you think he got through?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant – but he still have to find his way back to Kadikoi in dark. Maybe he get lost? Who can tell? Or maybe he meet more Russians and get shot? We just have to wait and see.’

  ‘Well, if no one comes within a couple of days, I think we’re going to have to try and break through ourselves. We can’t keep doing four hours on watch, four hours off, and remain alert and sane. Perhaps Clancy’s efforts have given them ideas too? Maybe we should keep a watch out for assassins in the dark?’

  The Turk shrugged. ‘Possible, yes.’

  It was a chilling thought.

  Crossman was anxious about Corporal Devlin’s injury.

  ‘How are you, Corporal? Is that wound hurting?’

  ‘The poultice seems to have done a lot of good, Sergeant. I can’t walk on my ankle yet, but the swelling’s gone down and there’s no nasty red line going up my leg.’

  The Irishman always made light of any problems. Crossman knew that he was probably concerned, since any wound in the Crimea, no matter how shallow, was always dangerous. Men had died from being hit in the arm by a ball. Wounds just seemed to go bad, then from bad to worse, many of them carrying away the life of the injured man through gangrene or blood poisoning.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Crossman, inspecting the injury. ‘We don’t want blood poisoning to add to your problems. No,’ he said, peering under the pad of moss, ‘it looks quite clean to me. There’s a bit of pus and black blood, but that’s to be expected.’

  ‘Would you like me to take a turn at sentry duty, Sergeant? You could prop me up with some logs or something. I feel a little useless lying here doing nothing. It’d do my spirit good.’

  ‘We’ll see. If one of the others becomes too exhausted, we may have to use you. In the meantime, just get plenty of rest. There’s nothing any of us can do really except wait.’

  They waited all that day, growing more and more anxious with the passing of time. Towards evening Crossman was fairly certain that Clancy had not made it through to the British lines. Of course, Major Lovelace might not have been available if Clancy had got to Kadikoi, and Crossman did not trust Lieutenant Dalton-James to answer his call for help. No one else, save Parker, would have the faintest idea what Clancy was talking about. That was the trouble with these clandestine operations.

  Crossman was just wishing that he had given Clancy instructions to go to Lieutenant Parker, in the case of Major Lovelace being absent and Lieutenant Dalton-James refusing to take action in his stead, when shooting started above and below the position of the croft.

  Wynter, watching the lower path, called out, ‘Are they attacking, Sergeant? I can’t see them.’

  Ali was on the path above.

  Crossman called to the Bashi-Bazouk, ‘What’s happening, Ali? Are you firing?’

  ‘No, Sergeant,’ came the unperturbed reply. ‘I think maybe Major Lovelace come.’

  Crossman felt elated.

  ‘Good – good man. Come on then, Rangers, assist the rescue party. Don’t let ’em find us waiting here pathetically for their help. Show them we’ve still got some fighting spirit left in us!’

  Wynter let out a whoop of delight and began shooting at shadows down amongst the rocks below. Peterson found a suitable spot and began firing alongside Wynter. Ali and Crossman sent lead flying up into the hills. None of them could see the enemy, but it felt good to let off a few rounds in their direction. It would also help to confuse the Russians, make them believe they were being seriously assaulted from behind too.

  The battle raged for about twenty minutes, at the end of which the Russians began to retire. Major Lovelace had wisely left the enemy commander an escape route. It was not his policy to trap them like animals so that they were forced to put up a do-or-die resistance, rather than retreat. He believed it was better to
leave the back door open and allow them access to it.

  Peterson and Wynter gave chase, the two soldiers following the Russians, picking some of them off as they tried to regroup. The rocks and trees rang with shots for a while, as the Rangers were covered by Lovelace’s men, themselves not experienced enough with this rough hinterland to join Crossman’s men. Peterson and Wynter were able to use their knowledge of the area to make sneak attacks on the Russian rearguard and harass them deep into the countryside. They employed the gullies and rocky outcrops, frustrating the Russian retreat. When they felt they had gone far enough they returned to Crossman having satisfied a little of the anger that had built up in them during the siege.

  Once the Russians had melted into the hinterland the major came down to the croft, escorted by Lieutenant Dalton-James, Private Clancy and a smiling Rupert Jarrard. Jarrard’s navy Colt revolver was smoking in his hand. The American correspondent, ever spoiling for a fight, had obviously been allowed to take part in the battle.

  Crossman almost leaped up and shook everyone’s hands. Instead he remembered his position as an NCO of the 88th Foot and saluted the officers instead. The gravity of Dalton-James’s expression told him he had done the right thing.

  Crossman said to Major Lovelace, ‘Thank you for coming, sir – good to see you.’

  Major Lovelace gave him a faint smile.

  ‘Thank you for the invitation, Sergeant. All alive and well then?’ He then noticed Devlin, lying in the dimness of the croft. ‘Some not so well, eh? Will he live?’

  ‘I’ll live, sir,’ called Devlin. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  ‘Oh, we weren’t worried about it, Corporal,’ sniffed Lieutenant Dalton-James. ‘We were merely enquiring out of idle curiosity.’

  Major Lovelace gave the lieutenant an old-fashioned look, then turned to Crossman again.

  ‘What about this money?’

  Crossman grimaced. ‘Quite a lot of it. Unfortunately we had to burn it all in case it fell into Russian hands again.’