Into the Valley of Death Read online

  He wriggled out of shelter to drag in the body of a fallen Russian. It was a dead weight over the grass, but he wrestled it into their sanctuary and was already unbuttoning the coat when the next ball came. He felt it before he heard it, a sharp punch in his thigh, a smell like burning wool, then the pain lancing up to his groin and his own voice cursing. It would be the right leg, of course, the only one that bloody worked.

  His hands kept fumbling down the row of buttons, tugging the corpse’s arms out of the sleeves, rolling him over to strip off the grey coat. It was good and long, very like their own infantry greatcoats, and when he tucked it over Ginger the red completely disappeared. There was still the corpse, and he turned to wedge it into the gap between the rocks. A part of his mind recoiled at using a human being as no more than a sandbag, but the man was dead and out of it, the husk could save the living.

  ‘Won’t be for long, anyway,’ said Ginger. His voice was monotonic and a fleck of spittle showed at the corner of his mouth. ‘The Guards are coming, hey? The good old Guards.’

  Ryder looked back down the slope. So far only the Scots Fusiliers were approaching, but in the distance he saw Grenadiers and Coldstream marching up to join them on either side.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘We’re going to take back the redoubt then push the bastards all the way back to Sebastopol.’ He leaned back against a rock and took out his powder flask.

  Faint shouts drifted up towards them, shouts and the call of a bugle. Retreat? Ryder looked wildly round, and saw another Russian regiment advancing over the creases of the hills. It didn’t matter, not if there were ten it didn’t matter, the Fusiliers had only to hold long enough for the other Guards to join them, then they could –

  The shouts were now so loud as to reach to their position. ‘The Scots Fusiliers will retreat! The Fusilier Guards must retreat!’ Again the bugle called, and Ryder stared at the horseman by the trumpeter. That staff officer again, he could swear it was the same, cocked hat, red and gold saddlecloth, bay horse. He was already turning to gallop towards the rest of the First Division, but the damage was done, bloody done, the Fusiliers were turning just at the moment the Russians began to swarm out of the redoubt. Some stood, he saw a group holding fast round the Queen’s colour and backing doggedly onto the line regiments behind, but the rest were running, brave men turning their backs on a hail of fire and charging bayonets, redcoats breaking and scattering in defeat.

  And the Russians were coming to finish it. They were pouring down the slopes, a whole column heading straight for their own position. He knocked the shako from Ginger’s head, tweaked the greatcoat to cover his bright hair, and hissed ‘Lie still!’ There was only one hope for himself, and he swallowed his revulsion and took it. He rolled painfully onto his side and buried his head and chest under the dead Russian’s legs, two corpses together who’d fallen in mortal combat.

  The body muffled sound from outside, and all he could hear was his own shallow breathing. There was a strange smell from the dead man’s clothes, smoky, vaguely uplifting, ultimately nauseating, but he dismissed it from his mind and concentrated on now. The Russians must be up to them, passing their clump of rocks, but he felt no movement round his legs and no one shouted. The ranks were parting to run round them, intent on nothing but pursuing the British who fled ahead of them like leaderless sheep.

  For long minutes he lay quiet and motionless, feeling his anger grow. If the Grenadiers and Coldstream couldn’t somehow turn the day, then this was defeat and maybe even massacre. Alone in his black cocoon he felt only a savage rage against the one man who’d caused it all, the officer whose insane orders had broken the biggest British army fielded since Waterloo.

  The Guards hooted as the Scots Fusiliers marched sullenly back through the line. Truman called ‘Who’s the Queen’s favourites now?’ but Woodall was too angry to join in the laughter. The army was depending on them, that soldier in the vineyard had as good as said so, the Guards couldn’t let them down now.

  His own battalion wouldn’t. Shell was smashing into them from a gun position on their flank, but still they kept going, the rock behind which the fleeing infantry were re-forming to return to the attack. He imagined how they’d look to the Russians, impregnable red and black, striding over the earth like giants from another world. He wished even more they weren’t doing it uphill; his calves were beginning to ache.

  They marched over the next rise and saw what the others had been running from. A swelling column of Russian infantry was advancing steadily towards them on the left flank, and from ahead were coming two more. Three thick, deep columns against one red line. The battalion halted, the Russian artillery ceased, and in the moment’s silence Woodall heard a faint rush of breeze riffling through the long grass.

  ‘Retire!’ came a shout. ‘The Grenadiers will retire!’

  Woodall craned round. The order came again, a staff officer on a bay horse yelling ‘The Grenadiers will retire!’ then turning to canter towards the distant Coldstream.

  Every head turned to Colonel Percy, and Woodall held his breath. Truman muttered, ‘Not on your life, chum, not if the bloody Queen ordered it herself,’ and while Woodall’s soul cringed at the blasphemy he wanted to cheer at the sentiment.

  Colonel Percy laughed. ‘No, no,’ he called to his subaltern. ‘He don’t mean “retire”, he means “dress back” – look, I’ll show you.’ Then he was giving orders, honest-to-goodness straightforward orders, he was turning their whole left at an angle to face the column on their flank. It was a beautiful movement, smooth as clockwork, and Woodall half expected the polite clapping of the crowds in Hyde Park. In his head he was already writing a letter, You should have seen us, Maise, you’d have cheered like billy-oh, but his body did what it was directed and faced front. The Russians were in musket range, their cannon out of it, and now they would come to it, now.

  The first Russian column faced them and fired. A whole load of bangs, that was all, nothing to men who’d lain under artillery for hours. ‘Nothing,’ thought Woodall, firing back on the order and slamming his piece to ground for the reload. ‘Now you’ll get it, you ruddy foreigners, now you’ll see.’

  Iron flew, blood and flesh flew with it, and still the Grenadiers fired. Again, reload and again, they were quicker and better, their guns more accurate, these Russians must be mad to think they could even dent them. There was hardly a man of their own falling.

  ‘We can hold here for ever, Jonesy,’ said Woodall, the familiarity slipping out without thought. ‘We’re going to break them all through.’

  Jones didn’t answer. His face was blank, his mouth bleeding, the white of his eyes blotting red. His body banged against Woodall’s shoulder and slithered down his chest before collapsing into the grass.

  ‘There goes Jonesy,’ said Corporal Gleeson. ‘Close up now, keep firing.’

  Woodall stared at the percussion cap in his fingers as if he’d forgotten what it was. Did Jones hear him, did he catch it, that last throw of friendship before he died? A ball cracked past his head, he caught up with himself and snapped the cap down on the nipple. He mustn’t think about it now, nothing but the gun in his hand and the Russians waiting to fall.

  But they weren’t falling, the column was still ruddy well there, and swelling at the back like a bat spreading its wings. They were being reinforced from somewhere, and when he looked beyond he saw two, maybe three more columns heading their way. Colonel Hood was bending the rest of their line to blast them from two angles, and that was better, the beggars didn’t like that at all, but it would be a different matter when their pals caught up. Well, they’d got pals of their own, come to that, the Coldstream would engage in a minute.

  He reached for another cartridge, but another sound pierced the gunfire, a distant bugle, and a call he knew. Someone on their left was calling a retreat.

  ‘Gawd, no,’ said Truman, loading like a lunatic. ‘If the Coldstream go …’

  ‘The Coldstream know their duty,’ s
aid Corporal Gleeson, flicking off his used cap with a tiny ping of metal. ‘You just keep firing.’

  Woodall risked a quick glance away from the enemy. The Coldstream had stopped in confusion, their officers were arguing, and voices yelling ‘No!’ One mounted officer was turning back to the river, and Woodall stopped with the cartridge to his lips when he saw the same bay horse, same red and gold saddlecloth, same weaver hat and plume.

  ‘Keep firing, I said,’ snapped Gleeson, and Woodall quickly bit and spat. The Coldstream would resist, same as they’d done themselves. They must. As he poured the powder down the barrel he found he was saying it aloud. They must.

  Mackenzie wrung out his dripping sporran and looked up at the slopes ahead. The Coldstream seemed to have stopped, and drifting down towards the Highlanders came the sound of raised voices.

  ‘Will you listen to that now?’ he said in outrage. ‘Men arguing with their officers!’

  Farquhar sniffed. ‘No discipline. That’s the English for you.’

  Mackenzie had to agree. They’d a whole crowd of Light Division way down to their right, bunched up square to face cavalry when any fool could see there was none for miles. There were some for yelling at the Highlanders, saying, ‘You’re mad, you can’t go up there,’ and one called, ‘Oh let them, let the Scotch do all the work.’ Mackenzie smiled at him nicely and called back, ‘Aye, we’ll do that.’

  Their own stretch of bank was clear, and as the last of their number climbed up dripping to join the line he saw they’d somehow crossed that wee bit to the east of everyone else. It was the line of them that was doing it: spread but the two ranks deep, the whole Allied front must reach two, three miles to the sea. It was quieter down this end of things, fewer of the Russian guns pointed their way, but that would change once they knew the Highlanders were on them.

  Sir Colin knew they were ready. There was no grand speech this time, he just looked them all over, lowered his brows at the 93rd, who’d maybe edged themselves that little bit nearer the front, said, ‘Forward, 42nd,’ and led the way himself. First the Black Watch, then themselves, then the 79th, up they went in echelons of regiments, up the hill and into the sudden hail of fire that greeted them from the slopes above.

  It wasn’t so very accurate, but there was an awful lot of it. The Grenadiers were having a grand battle to their right by the sounds of things, and the Coldstream finally turning off to join it, but there was a fair amount of grey ahead of themselves and Mackenzie’s pace quickened in step with the others. It was steep going, but those weaned in the hills of the North weren’t to be fickled by a bit of a bank, and those Russians would have the Guards in the flank if they weren’t stopped quick. The pipes began again, ‘Scotland The Brave’, and Mackenzie strode forward with the joy of it, his wet kilt slapping against his thighs, his Minié the sword of a warrior in his hands.

  The shooting was louder in front, the 42nd had come to something, and their own chieftain at their head. A cry went up, ‘Sir Colin’s horse is down!’ and now all the 93rd were leaping faster and faster up the steep slopes, and Mackenzie was within sight of the heels of the 42nd when he heard the yell from above. ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, they’re French!’

  They didn’t look it to Mackenzie, that mass of grey swarming toward the Black Watch like rats in a corn barn, but he could see the officer giving the order, one of those staff ones with a plume, very important and in the counsel of Lord Raglan himself. If he said French, then French they would be.

  ‘No!’ bellowed a sergeant on the flank of the 42nd. ‘No, there’s no mistaking them devils!’ He raised his rifle and fired right into the middle of the approaching mass.

  An NCO to outright disobey an order! But now they were all doing it, and Sir Colin not seeming to mind a bit, he was accepting a second horse from his aide and calmly climbing back into the saddle. Mackenzie’s brain gave up the puzzle and concentrated on climbing faster and harder up the slope. The Black Watch was engaged with any number of columns coming against it, and it was time for the 93rd to join. It was a frustration, needing to keep the legs coming up and forward when all he wanted was to stop and fight, but then Colonel Ainslie gave the order and it was the best in the world, the order to ‘Advance firing!’

  Up to his shoulder came the Minié, a flick of the sights, a touch of the cock, and the relief of pulling that trigger and seeing a man fall! Still his legs were moving, on and on towards the enemy and their faces white with terror at what they saw. A man dropped beside him, but he was to be left for the bandsmen, Mackenzie simply swerved round and went on, his fingers working easily, naturally, in the drill he could do in the dark. On and fire, on and fire, and the column was breaking in panic, balls scoring deep furrows down their length, Russians falling and dying as Mackenzie had seen his own comrades fall and die. They were afraid, these poor creatures, afraid to be out in the open without the protection of their big cannon, afraid of the Highlanders marching towards them, blazing out death as they came.

  The Grenadiers held on. They had remnants of the 95th fighting alongside them, but Woodall was sure his rate was twice theirs, and the barrel of his rifle was hot to his hand.

  And the Russian column was feeling it, wavering, looking round for reinforcements that seemed to have disappeared. Someone shouted down their own line, Truman picked it up, Gleeson, everyone, he cheered himself, and the sound hit the column like a wind. They were reeling back, their rate of fire slowing, now was the time, now, and at last the order ‘The line will advance on the centre! Quick march!’

  Never mind the quick march, he was all but running and the others with him. One pause to fire, then to hell with it, it was down with the bayonet and charge. The Russians were making noises, an unearthly deep wail as if they were mourning their own loss and defeat. Well, serve them right, they’d get what was coming to them now.

  His line crashed into them, in and through, easy as cleaving a mob in the Mall. One man moved to block him, teeth bared and bayonet ready, but he was smaller and bonier than the newspaper pictures, a face like a sad monkey not a raging bear. For a second Woodall hesitated, one man facing another, then the Russian lunged, Woodall whacked the blow aside, turned inwards and plunged the bayonet in the belly. Kill or be killed, that was all. He twisted the blade and found it came out as easily as the sandbag in training.

  On for the next, but this one was swerving, and the bayonet jarred against a rib. No time to pull out and stab again, he grunted in frustration and forced the blade through. It was locked, jammed in the ribcage, and cost him agonized and sweating seconds to wrench free, but no one attacked him, the men around were all Guards, and the grey files already scattering before their charge. He paused a second, panting in relief, then wiped his hand down his coat and rushed after them.

  The Russians were parting as they ran, and through the opening loomed another green hill with a fortification at the top. Up they went, his calves straining at every step, and Truman muttering ‘Bloody hell, what’s wrong with fighting on the flat?’ A laugh formed in his chest, but he pressed it sternly down and strode on, more of a man than Truman any day. Besides, there were Scots Fusiliers coming up on the left, 7th Fusiliers racing up on the right and some sneaking Coldstream belting up round the back, the Grenadiers had simply got to get there first.

  Shots crackled down from behind that low breastwork, the thing was defended after all. Muzzles and bayonets bristled over the parapet, and an officer was riding up and down waving his sword in encouragement.

  ‘Sixpence for whoever downs him!’ called Gleeson. ‘Come on, Woodall, you’re a tidy shot, ain’t you?’

  He was when he was loaded. His rifle was empty, they all were, they’d fired before the charge. Another volley crashed down, and Gleeson fell on his side with his throat torn open. Woodall’s hands were slippery on the barrel as he groped for the cartridge, load, load, quick before they fire again, they’d never reach them in time with the bayonet. He allowed his eyes one glance up as he rammed the charg
e, and at once wished he hadn’t. Poking over the rampart at them was something bigger than a musket. A howitzer, they’d got a ruddy howitzer, and it was pointed right in the middle of their line.

  Ryder heaved himself up on his elbows. His legs weren’t moving, but he didn’t need them for this. He lifted the Colt and rolled sideways to level the barrel over the body of the dead Russian. He’d still got three in the cylinder and was closer than any of the Guards.

  The howitzer had to be first. They should have spiked it, why didn’t they spike it instead of pissing about scratching their bloody names on it? But they hadn’t and there it was, loaded and ready to fire on the advancing Grenadiers. He picked out the man with the linstock, lined the gun for his belly, and fired – one. Another gunner yelled and ran to pick it up, line up and got him – two. The other gunners were backing off, but an officer was screaming at them, waving his sword and yelling, line up and fire – three. Missed, damn it to hell, he was still up and shouting, then a bang right by Ryder’s cheek and the officer slid down and off his horse.

  ‘Did I get him?’ said, Ginger, laying down his rifle.

  His face was white as plaster, but the eyes glowed like sunshine on wood. Ryder said, ‘You’re a better shot than me, you beggar.’

  A roar swept over both of them as the Guards charged past. It wasn’t just Grenadiers now, he saw Coldstream, re-formed Scots Fusiliers, and even remnants of the incredible 7th, who seemed to have finished their own private duel on the right flank. He wriggled round to watch as they stormed the redoubt, laying about them with the bayonet and cheering for bloody England. He couldn’t see beyond the earthworks but when bearskins flew triumphantly in the air he guessed the redoubt was retaken. A moment later and a patch of red fluttered again from the top, the colours of the Grenadier Guards.