Into the Valley of Death Page 10

  Ryder knew that name. The notorious Bloomer of the 7th. He looked doubtfully at the broken-nosed companion, but he only grinned amiably and reached out a misshapen paw for the canteen. ‘What’s your name, Lily?’

  ‘Ryder,’ he said, suddenly reminded of who he was and what he was doing.

  ‘Ryder the rider!’ The ogre took a long swig of water, smacked his rubbery lips, and winked at Ryder’s lack of response. ‘You’ve heard it before, eh?’

  ‘I’ve heard it before,’ agreed Ryder. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘All right, Ryder, I won’t forget,’ said Bloomer. He held out the canteen like a handshake. ‘Run along now, and give my regards to Joe Sullivan.’

  There wasn’t time to explain. He just nodded in acknowledgement and shoved hastily back to his horse. He must be five minutes behind the others.

  He urged Wanderer faster, past the Light Division, past the green-jacketed Riflemen, and felt a surge of relief as sunshine twinkled on a thin brown line ahead. The River Bulganek at last. The cavalry advance guard were already fording it, the 11th Hussars dismounting to water, but as he slowed for the bank he was disconcerted to see Lord Cardigan leading his own regiment straight on. True, it was their turn for scouting duty, but surely they’d stop to water first? Then he saw the smoke billowing from the house by the bridge, the flames just starting to take hold, and knew the Russians were only minutes ahead.

  He plunged into the river, but Wanderer immediately jolted to a stop and bent his head to drink. Ryder dug in his heels and yelled ‘Come on, damn you!’ but the poor beast was desperate, and Ryder could only sit and watch in frustration as his regiment disappeared over a distant slope beyond. On a knoll to his right stood a gaggle of Staff with Lord Raglan, studying the land importantly through their glasses. What could they see? General Airey looked agitated.

  Wanderer dipped beneath him, the bloody animal trying to roll, but Ryder pulled back hard on the reins. The Staff group was breaking up, an aide being summoned, something was happening, something was wrong. He tightened his legs, kicked in the spurs and drove the horse forward, through the water and out and up the bank. The enemy was ahead, his regiment going to meet them alone, and Ryder put down his head and galloped.

  Cossacks again, whole dark ranks of them waiting on the opposite slope, and there was still no sign of Ryder. Oliver gripped his reins firmly and tried to hold on to the calm he’d felt last night. The Cossacks didn’t look as many as yesterday, and at least this time they could face them all together. Lord Cardigan certainly looked supremely unworried, and Oliver saw him slap his thigh as he said something to his aide.

  ‘Here we go, boys,’ said Fisk. He yanked his gauntlet higher with his teeth and grinned wolfishly down the line. ‘Let’s get at them!’

  Excitement was building like an orchestra tuning up, men fidgeting with bridles and carbines, leaning forward in the saddle as if that would bring the Cossacks closer. Cardigan kept them at the walk still, but Oliver felt his own thighs tense in expectation of the trot. The Russians were already starting to edge down the slope towards them, but he saw with alarm the numbers on the crest stayed the same, more and more of them coming up from behind.

  ‘Two to one,’ said someone, and Oliver heard the rustling as everyone looked up.

  ‘T’ain’t enough for Oliver,’ said Jordan. His cheek bulged a little as he sucked on a peppermint. ‘You like this sort of thing, don’t you, chum?’

  He didn’t think he did. He’d dreamed of it last night, the hesitation when he couldn’t make his hand move, and then the killing, the way the Russian had reeled back with his belly cut open, and how just for a moment the face looking back at him had been his own. Ryder had said it would be easier this time, but when he looked again at the Cossacks he saw with a jolt that the ones at the front carried guns. He knew what a single shot could do, he’d seen it yesterday when Ryder blew open a man’s chest and someone alive was suddenly dead. Dead. The thump of Misty’s hooves seemed very loud in the grass.

  ‘Look,’ said Jordan, and his chewing stopped. ‘Don’t think it’s another ambush, do you? Look.’

  More Cossacks appearing on the slopes to their left, a whole grey mass of them and the sun glinting off their lances. Oliver looked right and saw a shimmer of light over the slopes there too. More lances – or was it bayonets? Was there infantry there too? It was an ambush, bigger even than yesterday’s, but still Cardigan was leading them on and on, deeper and deeper down into the valley below.

  He jumped at the sound of hooves and turned to see Ryder taking up position on his right. Jarvis looked thunderous, and even Lord Cardigan scowled over his shoulder at the disorder in his line, but Oliver was too relieved to care. Ryder was back, and everything would work like before.

  But there were more than before, too many even to sit on the crest. They were spreading, trotting from behind the rise to join up with other ridges, and the darkness of them blotted out all the sky. Oliver stared along the growing ranks with rising queasiness, wondering why they didn’t charge, do it now, get it over with, and then a single orange flash cracked from the left of the enemy’s line. Opening shot. They were engaged.

  Cardigan signalled, the trumpeter called, they were halted before the next shots came. Another, then another, then a whole fusillade as the front line of Cossacks opened fire. Oliver felt himself twitching, waiting to be hit, but their own trumpet called again and he sprung his carbine with fumbling fingers. ‘Bob and Joe’, he knew the drill, he’d done it yesterday, why was it suddenly so difficult? He swung the barrel blindly in the direction of the Russians and pulled the trigger. He had no idea if he hit anyone, it no longer seemed to matter, one ball against so many hundreds. He groped in his pouch for the next cartridge and tried to think only of the drill.

  The quiet after the volley was broken by the businesslike rattling of ramrods as everyone loaded at once. For a fleeting moment he thought of the Adams revolver in his haversack, but knew he must save it for when the Russians charged. There was no urgency yet, the Cossacks were too far away for their inferior guns to do much damage, and when Oliver glanced down their own line he saw not a man out of place. The firing was nothing, a bored exchange of courtesies before the main attack.

  And everyone seemed so calm! Ryder had talked of the strength of the line, and now he was seeing it for himself. Moody looked positively supercilious, Fisk was muttering to Bolton – ‘Tanner on that Cossack officer, what d’you say?’ – and Ryder was gazing at the bare slopes around as if they were more interesting than the ones swarming with the enemy. He thought, ‘It’s only me. I’m the only one feeling – like this.’

  Aloud he said, ‘What are they waiting for? Why don’t they charge?’

  ‘Keep firing, Trooper,’ said Ryder. ‘They’re not going to charge.’

  Oliver turned to him in desperation. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s another trap,’ said Ryder, casually ramming his carbine. ‘There’s infantry behind. I saw them from the crest.’

  Hope and panic tightened his throat. ‘Then we’ll withdraw, won’t we? I mean Cardigan won’t … He won’t …’

  The aristocratic bellow must have reached right to their rear. ‘Draw swords!’

  No. No. But his own hand was following the order, a year of discipline moving it all on its own, one more note in a single shing of steel. Swords drawn.

  ‘Skirmishers in!’ roared Cardigan. ‘Trot – march!’

  Oliver felt his heels dig in, and his mare carry him obediently forward towards the Russians. More shots banged towards them, and he saw Fisk jerk his head as if he felt a ball go past. They were closing the range.

  But above the gunfire came another sound, a voice bawling ‘Wait!’ Hooves thudded behind them, and – oh thank God – Cardigan hesitated and turned, hand up to arrest the skirmishers in their advance. A frock-coated figure in cocked hat was galloping down their flank, a balding, full bearded man with a jaw that jutted beyond the hat brim. Lord Lucan was co
mmander of the whole cavalry, he outranked even Cardigan, he’d stop this madness and take them back.

  ‘Face front,’ said Ryder roughly. ‘Face your bloody front.’

  Oliver kept his eyes on the Russians, but all his attention was straining towards the angry voices of the British commanders, waiting for the order to withdraw. He heard more horses trotting up behind, but a glance back showed only the 11th Hussars forming to right of the regiment. No retreat. They were going to be made to stand their ground.

  A trumpet, skirmishers recalled, but it was only to re-form with the others. The enemy was re-forming too, shifting and growing, two more columns joining from the sides, and the first ranks beginning to pour down the slopes like custard over a pudding. Beside him Fisk said, ‘Dear Christ. Two thousand at least. Dear Christ.’

  Dear Christ. Oliver was praying himself as they settled beside the 11th, a little body of cavalry four hundred strong, presenting to the enemy in a line only two ranks deep. Lucan and Cardigan were still arguing, but now he saw movement in the hills to their right, grey men bustling round something green. Misty flinched beneath him at the deep, soft boom, then a white puff of smoke drifted across the valley and Oliver saw it, round-shot, a black ball whizzing towards them, sailing over their heads and burying itself with a crump in the grass behind.

  ‘Getting the range,’ said Ryder. ‘They’ll do better next time.’

  The second ball was closer, and the next ploughed clear into the ranks to their left, exploding in the flank of a horse three files along. Blood and flesh spat out like sparks from a cracker, and a fragment smacked wetly against Oliver’s sleeve, gleaming in the dark cloth like a red jewel. He stared in disbelief at the cavity scooped inside the horse, as empty of organs as if a butcher had been at it. The rider was down and clutching his leg, but it was the horse he couldn’t bear. Death that quickly, a living creature to just a mound of skin and skeleton; it mocked everything that kept them upright inside their uniforms. Another ball, this time striking in the Hussars, but Oliver couldn’t even look.

  ‘Steady, Trooper,’ said Ryder.

  Oliver turned violently. ‘But why are we just standing here? Why don’t we retreat?’

  ‘Because we can’t,’ said Ryder patiently. ‘Not without support. We turn now, and they’ll have us. We’ve got to front or we’re done, us and that whole exhausted column of infantry behind. They’re not ready, Polly, we’ve got to buy them time.’

  Oliver tried to take comfort in the glory of dying to save the army, but the images were stale and cold, his name being read out at the School and it not mattering because he himself was a heap of stinking blood and guts on a field in the Crimea. Heroes didn’t count the cost, but he knew now he wasn’t one of them and never would be. The Cossacks ahead were taunting them, voices and gestures saying ‘Come on, come on, are you scared?’ and Oliver knew his own answer was ‘yes’.

  ‘Ah, fuck off, you stupid bastards,’ murmured Ryder. ‘We’re not going to play.’ He seemed quite unbothered, but Oliver had never heard him use such a word, and his hand was clenching and loosing against the hilt of his sword. It was as if he too were desperate to get it over, as tense as Oliver himself.

  Another ball crashed into their ranks, and now he saw it all around him, the same apparent calm belied by taut faces and nervous gestures. Jordan was still chewing, but his jaw was grinding faster than usual and his face was pale. Bolton was fondling the ears of his beloved Bobbin, but the mare was tossing her head at the unusual agitation of his fingers. Jarvis looked as impassive as ever, but as Oliver watched he saw the tip of a pink tongue creep out to flick over dry lips. They all felt it, all of them, and their officers clearly knew it. They were speaking to the men, calming them like frightened horses, ‘Steady, lads,’ ‘Steady there,’ ‘Steady.’ Even Cornet Hoare sat upright in his saddle and said ‘Steady, men’ in a voice that hardly trembled, and Captain Marsh turned round to smile at him with kindness in his eyes. Oliver was filled with a kind of wonder. Even their officers were hiding fear like his own, but with the realization came a sudden understanding of what courage really was, and that he himself might have it too.

  The knowledge roared up inside him and blasted out the fear in an extraordinary light-headedness. Ryder was right, this was the line, and he was part of it. One of the Hussars yelled an insult at the Cossacks, and suddenly Oliver was shouting too, ‘Give it up! Go home, you rotten cowards!’ They were all at it now, all yelling, some laughing, and Albie Fisk bared his elbow to make a gesture quite shocking in its crudity. Another ball smashed into their line, and Sergeant Priestley reeled back in the saddle with his leg in bloody ribbons, but somehow he still moved his horse through the ranks to Cardigan and said ‘Permission to fall out, sir?’ His foot hung from his leg by only a strip of skin, he was mutilated for life, but the 13th laughed and clapped, and Oliver clapped too, crying ‘Bravo! Oh, bravo!’

  Another boom, closer and off to their left, but the smoke was behind them and the soft crump of impact threw up a spray of earth at the feet of the Cossacks themselves. Men turned in a single movement, wild hope on all their faces. ‘Our guns!’ they were saying. ‘Our guns at last!’ They were only the little 6-pounders of the Light Brigade’s own Horse Artillery, but Captain Maude was with them and the next ball whizzed with an almighty crash into one of the Russians’ own cannon. It must have been loaded, and for a glorious second the sky flashed orange as the muzzle exploded. Fisk cried, ‘Oh, you give it to them, you lovely buggers, go on and give them hell!’

  It wasn’t only their own guns. Behind them the Light Division artillery were unlimbering, big 9-pounder pieces, and behind them, dear God, infantry. More cavalry too, the Lancers were coming, the 8th Hussars, they had support at last, support. It came from the very top, for riding down their left flank was a frock-coated staff officer, General Airey himself, along with an ADC in 15th Hussars uniform with a distinctive tiger-skin saddlecloth. The dashing Captain Nolan, the man who knew so much about cavalry he’d even written a book about it. Ryder leaned forward in his saddle, and Oliver heard him say softly, ‘Now then, you bastards, now it’s our turn.’

  Their cannon boomed again, and excitement bloomed in the fire of it. The Cossacks were still shooting, but seemed suddenly as harmless as children throwing stones. Nolan called to a friend in the Lancers, ‘They’re damn bad shots, ain’t they?’ as if the whole thing were a wonderful game, and for a moment Oliver felt he agreed. The danger didn’t matter any more, not now they had a chance to hit back.

  But Airey was speaking clearly and authoritatively to Lucan, he was making sweeping gestures, and Oliver felt disbelief wavering through their ranks as they understood. Their infantry were here, they were ready to fight – and Raglan was ordering them to retreat. The rush of excitement banged in his head with nowhere to go, then settled slowly into a lump of nausea in his stomach. Yet again they were running away.

  A moment later and it was done. The trumpets called the withdrawal and round they went, round, turning their backs on the enemy just as they’d done yesterday. Their retreat was dignified, but the Cossacks knew they were running, and the sound of jeering laughter followed them all the way back over the hill. Even their own infantry knew it, and he couldn’t miss their broad grins and cheerful insults as they marched by. ‘Too hot for you, is it?’ called a Connaught Ranger. Another just said ‘Useless peacock bastards’ and spat.

  The shame was unbearable. For cavalry to go to the rear! He hoped they still might get their chance, that the skirmish might develop and the cavalry be called back, but the firing grew more sporadic and after a few minutes it stopped altogether. Messengers reported the Russians were retreating beyond the next river, and the whole thing was over with hardly a casualty. The infantry came marching back, smug with the look of men who’d seen their opponents flee the field, and Oliver couldn’t look them in the face.

  ‘There’ll be another chance,’ said Ryder, slamming his sword viciously back into the scabbard. �
�There always is.’

  Perhaps there would be, but it didn’t change what had happened here. Ryder had been right, nothing could have broken that line until their own commanders had done it for them. Oliver had fought through fear into courage and he’d done it under fire, but the sensation of running from the enemy was the same as it had been yesterday, and he was left with only the fear that he’d never be able to face them again.

  As dusk fell they withdrew on the river to bivouac in line of battle, and Ryder’s spirits rose. They’d advance in the morning when the army was rested, and this time they’d be ready to fight. The Bulganek had been a washout, but this next river, the one the Russians were waiting at, that would be the real thing. He heard its name bandied round the picket lines as he fed Wanderer from the forage net. ‘The Alma,’ men said. ‘The River Alma.’ He pictured it on the maps, a thin blue line running across the road to Sebastopol. The Alma.

  ‘Ryder,’ said Jarvis. They’d just sat under cannon fire, but he stood in all the formality of the parade-ground. ‘A word, if you please.’

  Oh God, yes, the business with the water, he’d disobeyed another order. The night before a battle, and Marsh was going to fret about another five-bob fine. He said politely, ‘Am I under arrest, Sar’nt-major?’

  Jarvis smiled. ‘Not yet. Lord Cardigan has complained and Colonel Doherty wants to see you himself.’

  Doherty! ‘Oh, come on, Sar’nt-major, for giving the men some water?’

  Jarvis’s smile grew. ‘The charge is absent from your post at a time of war.’

  Ryder stared. ‘I was with the army. I was just behind you, for God’s sake …’

  ‘Explain to the colonel,’ said Jarvis. ‘At the double now, move!’

  Ryder allowed himself to be marched away in a nightmare daze. He was vaguely aware of Oliver’s white, shocked face as they passed, but everything else was dim, a background to frantic thought that finally sank into a sick inevitability in his belly. Maybe darkness and the invisibility of rank would save him, maybe it would be better if it didn’t, but either way he knew he was finished.