The Valley of Death

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘So I understood from Private Clancy. It was probably pay for their troops in Sebastopol. Well done. You were sent out to disrupt their communication and supply lines and you seem to have done that. They’ll be wary about using this hidden trail again. I understand you attacked the top road as well with fair results?’

  Crossman coughed. ‘We – er – we captured a quantity of pickled cabbage.’

  Wynter, Peterson, Clancy and Devlin all looked away in embarrassment.

  Dalton-James, who had been standing stiffly alongside Major Lovelace, snorted.

  ‘That will seriously disturb the Russian war effort, I’m sure.’

  Lovelace whirled on Dalton-James.

  ‘Do not underestimate the importance of pickled cabbage to the Russian troops, Lieutenant. There are three things which are significant to your Russian soldier – vodka, pickled cabbage and religion, in that order. When he cannot get supplies of the former, he turns to the latter, but his solace is that central ingredient and mainstay of his diet – pickled cabbage.’

  Yusuf Ali nodded vigorously.

  ‘Cabbage very good. Make iron for the blood. Russian soldier lose all strength with no cabbage to eat.’

  By this time Dalton-James was aware that he was being made fun of and he walked away wearing a sulky expression.

  ‘By the way, sir, there is another chest,’ said Crossman to Major Lovelace. ‘We hid it in some rocks. It was too heavy to drag up here, but it might be worth a look at it sometime.’

  ‘I’ll send someone, or come myself, when things have calmed down a little. Unless I miss my guess the Russians will be back in force soon. Their answer to being attacked by a larger force than themselves is to go and get an even larger one and counter-attack. Let’s be on our way for now. You can give me the location of this heavy box later.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Major Lovelace began to walk towards where Lieutenant Dalton-James was standing smouldering by himself. However, the major turned after going a few steps. He looked Crossman in the eye.

  ‘That’s a rather unusual firearm your Bashi-Bazouk has in his possession, Sergeant. I should tell him to keep it out of the way if I were you. There are those amongst us who would have it off him.’

  Crossman nodded in mortification. ‘I’ll do that, sir.’

  ‘Good. And for my part, I’ll pretend I haven’t seen it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘No, thank you, Sergeant. You’re making this war pretty exciting. We do a rather underhand, unpleasant but necessary service for our cause. I think General Buller did well to bring us all together, don’t you?’

  ‘With the exception of a certain lieutenant, yes, sir, I do.’

  ‘Well, the world’s not perfect, Sergeant,’ smiled the major, ‘and he too makes it interesting, in his way.’

  With that Major Lovelace strode off, to join the man they had been talking about.

  Crossman put an arm around the waiting Clancy’s shoulders.

  ‘Private Clancy, you’re an excellent mischief-maker and saboteur. You’re an even better assassin, but I’m not sure we should become too proud of that part of you. That ingredient of your character is a little unsavoury I imagine even for the indelicate taste of Major Lovelace, who is not renowned for being fastidious. Anyway, I’m mightily pleased with your efforts. You did extremely well. You did exactly what was required of you with the minimum of fuss.’

  ‘I would’ve done the same,’ said Wynter, sidling up. ‘I would’ve got help if you’d sent me instead.’

  ‘Yes you would, Wynter, but with the maximum of fuss,’ replied Crossman. ‘You court praise, Wynter, and that doesn’t sit well on a man.’

  Wynter nodded. He looked unusually serious, but without that pathetic expression which irritated Crossman so much. For some reason he commanded Crossman’s attention, and that of the others, in a strong way.

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ Wynter said with quiet dignity. ‘You can say that from the comfort of your cosy upbringing, Sergeant Crossman. But it an’t easy, bein’ born of the low classes and having to make your way in the world. You’ll never know it, because you didn’t have to do it, but making the most of what you’ve done gets to be a habit. If you don’t, nobody so much as notices you. When you’re wearin’ these boots, you yell your victories from the rooftops, or nobody hears.’

  Crossman stood, uncomfortable under the steady gaze of Private Wynter, not knowing how to answer him.

  But Rupert Jarrard said, ‘A boaster’s a boaster, whether high or low, Wynter, and well you know it.’

  ‘I didn’t say you should admire such a thing,’ answered Wynter. ‘I said it gets to be a habit.’

  ‘You’re right, Wynter,’ said Crossman, ‘I should make allowances.’

  Peterson introduced a little levity into the conversation, since she felt they were becoming far too serious.

  ‘What are you saying, Wynter?’ she cried. ‘You’ve been gentry in your time.’

  Wynter whirled on her. ‘Me? How so?’

  ‘Why, for a short while you were one of the wealthiest men in the Crimea – you had a share in a chest full of money. Surely you can’t have forgotten so quickly? You were rich.’

  He grimaced at her joke. ‘Till it was all burned.’

  ‘Still, you had your hour.’

  He found it in himself to grin at the ring of faces around him.

  ‘Why so I was,’ he said. ‘As rich as Croesus for a while – I wisht I’d had the chance to spend some, though.’

  ‘Don’t we all, Wynter,’ said Crossman. ‘Don’t we all.’

  28

  Back in the hotel at Kadikoi Crossman was sitting sewing a tear in his uniform. He was working by the light of a candle stub, the oil for the lamp having run out. There was no more oil available for the moment. Someone said there were bottles of lamp oil to be had by the plenty, but these were buried in the hold of some ship either now on the high seas or bobbing with fifty others in Balaclava harbour.

  He had just finished the last stitch and was biting the cotton, when Rupert Jarrard came in through the doorway.

  ‘Hello, all on your own, Jack?’

  ‘Come in, Rupert, take a seat. I thought the men would enjoy a night at the canteen after their fox hunt. Even Devlin has gone – carried between Wynter and Clancy. God knows how they’ll get him home again afterwards, for they’re certain to be in a drunken state.’

  Jarrard sat down and took out a cigar case, offering one to Crossman.

  ‘No thanks, Rupert – I’ll smoke my pipe.’

  The two men eventually lit up after Crossman had filled the bowl of his chibouque, and they sat in the peace of the quiet evening, comfortable enough in one another’s company, not always needing polite talk to fill in the gaps. Inevitably, when they did speak, it was to discuss some new invention.

  ‘I have heard,’ said Jarrard, ‘that a Belgian musician by the name of Adolphe Sax has invented a new wind instrument.’

  ‘Old hat, Rupert. It was introduced to military bands nearly a decade ago.’

  ‘Well, it’s new to me,’ Jarrard said. ‘What is it exactly, Jack? I understand it uses a reed, like an oboe.’

  ‘It is neither fish nor fowl, Rupert,’ said Crossman, emphatically. ‘It is Cornucopia-shaped. It is made of brass, like a trumpet, yet to all intents and purposes it is as you say, a woodwind instrument. My opinion is that the saxophone – the very name of the object is decidedly vulgar – is not a musical instrument at all in the true sense of the word. There are too many valves and fiddly bits on the stem and the sound is reminiscent of cattle being castrated.’

  ‘You don’t like this saxophone,’ Jarrard said, stating the obvious.

  ‘I abhor the instrument. I think it is the epitome of all that is bad taste in modern music. It has the dirty-sounding blare of a fallen woman; it has a form which recalls the sinuous shape of the serpent in the garden of Eden, responsible for original sin; its player becomes far too intimate w
ith it during performances and there is something in the manner of its glitter which reminds me of worthless decorative tinsel at a masquerade.’

  Jarrard grinned and took the cigar from his mouth. He said, ‘I like this instrument.’

  ‘That is because you are from the ex-colonies, Rupert, and cannot discern between the refined and the uncouth.’

  Jarrard stuck the cigar back in his mouth in a belligerent fashion. ‘By God, if I thought you were serious, Jack, I’d take you outside and show you the difference between a refined fist and an uncouth one,’ he said, out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Before you do that I have to warn you I am an accomplished pugilist, Rupert, in the style of the champion John Broughton, who when he was alive taught my grandfather the art of fisticuffs – and of course my grandfather passed on his learning to me.’

  ‘Well I don’t have a style, Jack, I just knock people down like I knocked down that grizzly bear out west – struck him on the nose with my bare fist and laid him out cold.’

  ‘That sounds like a tall story, Rupert.’

  Fortunately for both men at that moment the doorway was darkened by a figure. Crossman looked up to see Lieutenant Dalton-James standing there, looking very stiff and formal in his rifle green. The lieutenant seemed agitated as he stared at Crossman, who got to his feet.

  ‘Sir? Can I help you?’

  The thought went through Crossman’s mind that the lieutenant had come to settle a score with him. Crossman had suddenly remembered he had sent Dalton-James on a fool’s errand the night the sergeant had left for the hills. He wondered if Lavinia Durham had given the lieutenant short shrift and then told him that it was probably Sergeant Crossman who had set him up. No doubt Dalton-James wanted revenge.

  ‘I – er – I rather wanted to speak to Mr Jarrard, if I may?’ answered an unusually subdued Dalton-James. ‘Could we speak outside in private, sir?’

  Jarrard looked at Crossman and then said to Dalton-James, ‘By all means. Outside, you say?’

  ‘If it is convenient.’

  Jarrard followed the lieutenant through the doorway and they stood some ten yards from the hovel. They could not move further because the mud-surfaced track to and from Balaclava was still heavy with traffic. In fact Dalton-James had to move out of the way of an ox-drawn araba while speaking in a low and serious voice to the American correspondent. Crossman wondered if he himself were the subject of the conversation, since Dalton-James had been so anxious not to let him hear. Crossman stared through the doorway at the silhouettes of the two men, as the sun went down to leave a red balanced sky in its wake.

  Finally, after a brief nod from Jarrard, Dalton-James strode off in the direction of Balaclava harbour,

  Jarrard came back and resumed his position at the table.

  Crossman made them both a drink of field coffee.

  ‘Well, Rupert,’ he said, ‘aren’t you going to tell me?’

  Jarrard sipped the foul coffee and made a face, before saying, ‘It was in confidence, you understand. I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Yes, but you can tell me,’ protested Crossman. ‘I am the soul of discretion.’

  ‘No,’ Jarrard said, sighing heavily, ‘you misunderstand me. I mean it’s an affair of honour. A duel. Pistols for two, coffee for one . . .’

  Crossman’s eyes opened very wide.

  ‘He’s asked you to be his second?’

  ‘Yes. Said he needed me because I’m a civilian. Anyone in the army would get into trouble from Lord Raglan.’

  ‘He’s in the army, damn it.’

  ‘So’s his opponent and his opponent’s second. However, Dalton-James does not want to get anyone else involved. He says although I’m an American I have the bearing and trappings of a gentleman . . .’

  ‘How condescending of him.’

  ‘. . . and as such I qualify for the position of an officer and gentleman’s second. He begged me to assist him in this matter. Pistols at dawn tomorrow – six o’clock on the dot. What an unearthly hour! Sundown is when we American westerners favour a shoot-out. Sundown is a warm, mellow time, just right for such chivalric activities as single combat. I would not be able to shoot straight for yawning before breakfast. And conditions so cold and misty for a gunfight!

  ‘Actually, you Europeans don’t have a monopoly on early morning duels. Our southern gentlemen enjoy the same pastime. They use it as a means to cull the poor shots, should they ever need to go to war with the north.’

  ‘Rupert, this is very serious. Who is the other man? We must put a stop to this.’

  ‘You see, I knew I couldn’t trust you, Jack.’

  ‘Yes, but–

  ‘There are no buts, Jack – I have given my word to Dalton-James, just as you have given your word to me. We must say nothing and carry out the affair.’

  ‘Damn it, Rupert, at least tell me who is the other man. I insist on knowing that much at least.’

  Jarrard sighed, going to the doorway and looking out. The stub of his cigar glowed very red against the darkening sky beyond. He threw the butt out into the roadway, causing a shower of sparks to tumble along the road. Then he turned and faced Crossman.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘you asked for it. I didn’t want to have to tell you this, Jack, because it will hurt. The man Dalton-James is to fight is Captain Durham. The captain had an argument over the amount of time Dalton-James was spending with his wife. It became heated and resulted in a challenge. Now I know you and Mrs Durham—’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ interrupted Crossman, feeling the blood drain from his face.

  ‘Well it may be, but it’s certainly going to happen.’

  ‘No, I mean, Lavinia – that is, Mrs Durham – couldn’t possibly – good Lord, not Dalton-James.’

  Jarrard put a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  ‘I know, Jack, but whatever you and I think of the man, he is handsome, in those tight trousers and his rifle greens.’

  ‘I still cannot believe that she has been with Dalton-James. I was certain she would find him an obnoxious bore . . .’

  Jarrard looked sharply at Crossman, who turned away in embarrassment.

  ‘Jack? You’re withholding something. What did you mean by that remark? You were certain?’

  Crossman sighed. ‘I played a trick on Dalton-James in a moment of rashness. I was summoned to meet the lady and I gave Dalton-James the note, told him it was addressed to him. He went along thinking she had asked to see him. I never dreamed it would come to this. It was just a joke.’

  ‘Someone will die laughing.’

  ‘Oh God, Rupert. I have to stop this affair. Please release me from my promise.’

  Jarrard shook his head. ‘No can do, Jack. You’ll have to live with the consequences, I’m afraid. You should have thought before you played your little trick. Now I have to go and see Captain Durham to make the final arrangements.’

  Crossman grabbed the sleeve of his friend’s jacket.

  ‘Rupert, listen to me. I have no doubt that Captain Durham is a poor shot and will probably miss his opponent. Dalton-James, however, is a crackshot. It will be murder.’

  Jarrard looked uncomfortable. ‘What do you propose?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re one of the seconds. Fix the pistols. Load them with gunpowder and wadding only. Leave out the ball.’

  ‘You honestly think that a man with Dalton-James’s experience of firearms will not know the difference when he fires his pistol? They will accuse me of mishandling the affair. I’m sorry. Now good night, Jack.’

  Crossman turned away. ‘Good night, Rupert.’

  Once Jarrard was gone, Crossman slumped into a rickety chair. What was he going to do? Dalton-James and Lavinia? He did not like the picture in his head. What on earth made her go for a man like him? Crossman still could not believe it. The man was a revolting snob. One of those old Harrovian boys who used to lisp just for the effect. Crossman decided he had to talk to Lavinia just one more tim
e.

  Risking a confrontation with Captain Durham himself, Crossman went to Lavinia Durham’s lodgings. Investigating the premises before entering, Crossman found to his good luck that she was alone. Looking through the back window he could see her brushing her long hair in front of a cracked shaving mirror. She was a very attractive woman, especially with her locks falling over her shoulders, tumbling down between her breasts.

  Once he knew she had no one with her, he quickly went round the front of the dwelling, mortified that he would be caught peeking into a lady’s bedroom window. Such an offence would have been the death of him, if not from firing squad from his own embarrassment. He went into the house without knocking, but called her name softly before entering her room.

  She turned as he stepped through the doorway.

  ‘Alex, is that you? Oh, I thought you had been killed. You’re all right?’

  When he was by her side she got up and linked her arms around his neck and kissed his lips.

  Gently he unlocked her hands and stood back from her.

  ‘Lavinia, I didn’t want to come here tonight to revive something which should never have taken place in the first instance. There’s a much more serious matter to deal with. What about this duel between Durham and Dalton-James?’

  29

  The duel was due to take place in an orchard just east of Kadikoi. Mist lay in a thick layer over the whole surface of the ground, so that if a body fell it would lie unseen below the surface of this white, mysterious mantle until retrieved. A weak, waxy sun tried to stir the mist into leaving, but the vapour remained obstinate and clung to the turf with tiny claws, refusing to budge.

  Two men, stripped to their shirts in the cold air, selected a pistol each from the velvet-lined box proffered by Ensign Chauncy, Captain Durham’s second. Rupert Jarrard had already inspected the weapons and found them both to be loaded and primed, ready to kill or wound.

  Jarrard stood a little off now, by the referee, a French lieutenant by the name of Lehmann. The lieutenant was also a surgeon of sorts, though without paper qualifications. He had told Jarrard he had been through medical training, but had spent too much time chasing ladies and drinking wine with his friends, so never actually managed to become a doctor.