Into the Valley of Death Page 23

  Woodall gave a tiny grunt. ‘Big one?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Oliver, but his eyes met Ryder’s and he gave a tiny shake of his head.

  Ryder saw the fear in Woodall’s face and felt a flat sense of fatality. ‘That’s it, then. We’ve got to get you to a surgeon.’ He turned to Mackenzie. ‘We can’t wait for dark. We’ll cover you while you carry Woodall up, then you can send help back for us.’

  Mackenzie considered the distance. ‘You’ll need more than three shots to cover me.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ryder. ‘I’m going to get the Adams.’

  Mackenzie’s eyelids flickered. ‘I’m the faster runner.’

  ‘You’re also trained with the rifle.’

  Mackenzie looked at Oliver, then back at Ryder and nodded. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Good,’ said Ryder. ‘Is the Adams loaded, Polly? Can I just pull it out and fire?’

  Oliver didn’t answer, and when Ryder looked round he saw the boy was white-faced and shaking. ‘You can’t. It’s my fault it’s out there, you’ve got to let me get it.’

  There wasn’t time for tantrums. ‘Come on, Poll, I’m more experienced. You can take the Colt and help Mackenzie cover me.’

  ‘I don’t know the Colt, I know the Adams,’ said Oliver. Angry patches of red were burning in his cheeks and his fists were actually clenched. ‘It’s my horse, if she sees you running at her she’ll bolt. I’m faster than you anyway, your leg’s still bad. It’s got to be me.’

  He was right, and Ryder felt something like a knife twisting in his guts. Poor kid, it was a hell of a way to fight his first proper action, but there was fury in his face as well as fear, and it might be enough to carry him through.

  He said, ‘All right, Polly. I’ll cover you, now go and get your bloody gun.’

  Ryder talked him through it and Oliver struggled to concentrate on what he was saying.

  ‘Run like hell, don’t forget to zig-zag, and if you’ve heard three shots from us when you reach that rock then drop behind it, understand? Wait for Mackenzie to shout when he’s reloaded, then run the last bit. Grab the gun, bring the horse back with you for extra cover, and for God’s sake don’t forget the ammunition or it’s all for nothing. Got that?’

  He nodded numbly. Run and get the gun. Get the gun back to them or die. There was a fluttering feeling in the midst of his fear, an excitement at having come to it at last, the place where there weren’t any choices and he didn’t even have to be brave to make them. Sudden clarity flooded through his head and he looked at Ryder as if he were seeing him for the last time. He didn’t actually look that heroic, his hair was tangled and his cheek grazed, but he was the real thing and what one day Oliver aspired to be himself.

  He said, ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Good man,’ said Ryder. He squeezed Oliver’s arm, then released it and stepped back.

  Deep breath. Mackenzie had the rifle levelled at the first cave, Ryder was pointing his pistol at the second, they knew he’d go without being told. Another breath – and go. It was running, that’s all, back on the cricket field running for the catch curving slowly overhead. Stones rattled under his boots, sucking forward thrust from his run, but Misty turned her head to look at him, he called ‘Misty!’ and ran on.

  Bang! That would be Mackenzie, the Russians had spotted him. He remembered the word ‘zig-zag’ and struggled to turn right, away from his mare, losing time, losing speed, then a ball went crack-ping where he’d been and his mind stopped thinking altogether. Run, just run, another bang behind him, Ryder with the Colt, oh God, Misty was getting nervous and backing away, he yelled ‘Misty!’ and threw himself from the stones onto grass.

  She stopped and looked at him, biscuit, girl, biscuit, anything you want if you stay where you are right now. Another bang, that was three, all his cover, he looked for the rock but he’d passed it, in front of him was only the grey flank of the horse they’d given him all those months ago when he’d joined to be a hero. His feet stopped, his hands were touching her, up and to the blanket roll, don’t look round, unlatching the Adams case, then the butt was solid and grainy in his hand, and he spun round to face what was coming.

  Nothing was, he was too far round to be a good shot for the first cave. Something moved in the second, but he wasn’t a target any more, he was a man with a gun. Point it, pull the trigger, no need to cock, just pull the trigger, and a man fell. Just a grey shape, but he was a man and he fell. Ryder yelled, Oliver swung round and saw men emerging from the first cave, coming into the open where they could get him. Where he could get them. Point the Adams, gun at a target, point it, squeeze the trigger and then a bang of his own making.

  The joy of it. Delirium took him as he swung the gun to the other cave, but no one was there. He sobered suddenly, remembered he had only three more shots and still hadn’t got his ammunition. He wriggled his hand under the blanket, pulled out the gun case, and turned to see a man ahead of him, the rifle already levelled on his shoulder. Too late to move, and he felt the bang even before it came.

  But it was the other man who fell. Oliver blinked, turned, and saw a Russian outside the first cave pounding away down the ravine, followed by another with a wounded comrade over his shoulder. He looked back to the boulders, but Mackenzie was on his feet and Ryder crossing the slope to greet a group of redcoats strolling down. On the road above stood two empty carts, and beside them a group of Fusiliers with rifles pointing down the ravine. All those gunshots must have sounded like a battle, and they’d come to the rescue, they’d come.

  He stood a moment, his throat constricting at the hammering of his heart, then slowly felt his breathing ease. One of the Fusiliers seemed to know Ryder, he was clapping him on the back and laughing, but Ryder only shook his hand, said something, then came walking on towards Oliver.

  It was less than two minutes since they’d spoken, but Oliver felt suddenly awkward. He fumbled the battered biscuit out of his pocket and fed it to Misty.

  ‘So how do you feel?’ said Ryder.

  Oliver looked up. He’d been slow, if the Fusiliers hadn’t come he’d be dead, but Ryder didn’t look as if he was thinking about that. ‘All right. I think it’s … all right.’

  Ryder smiled and said, ‘So do I.’

  Woodall was a dead weight as they carried him up the slope, and Ryder had a suspicion he’d given up.

  ‘I’ve had it, haven’t I?’ he said, clutching at Ryder’s sleeve as they laid him down by the cart. ‘Polly’s right, there’s a ruddy great hole in my head. I’m done for.’

  ‘Not you,’ said Bloomer, exploring the Grenadier’s skull with surprisingly delicate fingers. ‘That’s the exit hole, daisy, it’s been in and out like a knocking-shop grind.’

  Woodall flushed, but Ryder saw the fear leave his eyes. ‘I won’t die?’

  Bloomer straightened. ‘Couple of days with the sawbones, you’ll be going it like a whatsit gazelle.’ He turned to bawl at his Fusiliers. ‘Right, all the wood in the front wagon for the Left Attack, then I need a volunteer to help me back with this one to Bally Carver.’

  He was a grotesque figure for an NCO. His stock had ripped loose, his sleeves were rolled up, and his belly bulging comfortably over his belt, but the men leaped at his orders as smartly as if he’d been Jarvis himself. Ryder watched him with gratitude and said, ‘Thanks, Bloomer. That’s twice.’

  ‘Nah, we’re square,’ said the Fusilier, studying him with one eye shut. ‘But what’s your game, skipping into Devil’s Alley like a bunch of Saturday-night flats? What did you expect to find down there, a bleeding picnic?’

  Ryder didn’t hesitate. ‘A rat. The one we were talking about yesterday. It’s true, Bloomer. We’ve just proved it.’

  ‘Ho,’ said Bloomer. His eyes gleamed as they slicked round the three of them, then back down to Woodall. ‘You put a name to him yet?’

  He could only shrug. ‘No one seems to know.’

  ‘Someone always knows,’ said Bloomer darkly. ‘He’s noticeable
, is Claret-Top, and he’ll have to kip somewhere for a start. I’ll give it the pig’s whisper and see what turns up.’

  ‘No time,’ said Woodall, moving his head from side to side as if to throw off something that wasn’t there. ‘The bombardment’s tomorrow. There’ll be a battle. No time.’

  Tomorrow! He looked desperately at Bloomer, but the Fusilier only nodded. ‘We was cutting the embrasures today, cully. Tomorrow for a guinea.’

  And a battle after it. He imagined storming Sebastopol with an officer working for the enemy and saw the Alma all over again, the Chersonese Uplands piled with redcoated dead.

  ‘The officers will deal with it,’ said Oliver. His voice was stronger, his chin was up, and he looked like something heroic out of Alton Locke. ‘We have to tell them right away.’

  Bloomer’s eyes bulged in his face. ‘The officers? Here, where was you when the brains were given out? You don’t go near the nobs with something like this.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Oliver. ‘We don’t know who he is, but surely …’

  ‘He’s a nob on the cross-bite, and that’s enough,’ said Bloomer. ‘It’ll be scandal and protect the pals, and all you’ll get out of it is a striped shirt. Nah, this is army business and we deal with it army style.’ He glanced behind again, then lowered his voice. ‘Get him in your sights in a battle, a ball goes whoops the wrong way, and Bob’s your very reverend uncle.’

  Mackenzie straightened with a jerk. ‘That’s murder.’

  ‘Is it, noodle?’ said Bloomer, and there was a new edge to his voice. ‘It’s been done before, take my word.’

  Oliver shook his head violently. ‘No. No. We have to tell an officer.’

  Bloomer looked from him to Mackenzie, and curled his lip. ‘Then you do it, my biddies, do it and get yourself flogged. Not my hide, is it?’

  Doubt and outrage mingled in Mackenzie’s face. ‘My sergeant would never …’

  Bloomer pulled a face like a gargoyle. ‘A sergeant! He’d be lashed himself if he tried to pass it up. You need a top-nob, a proper big ’un. Know one you can trust, do you?’

  Only the man whose help he’d said he’d never ask. But Oliver looked terrified, Mackenzie was glaring at his feet, and Ryder had no choice. ‘I’ll do it, Bloomer. I’ll keep names out of it, but it’s got to be done.’

  They all stared. The Fusilier peered at him as if examining a rare specimen, then flopped his shoulders and gave a brisk little nod, like a salute. ‘Your funeral, cock. But you tell this very particular nob of yours he needs to move before half after six tomorrow morning. After that I’m looking to my gun.’ He closed a baggy eyelid in a meaningful wink, and sauntered back to the carts.

  The bombardment would start at half past six. He yanked out his pocket watch and stared at it for what felt like seconds before the digits registered. Ten to four. Fourteen hours to make a difference.

  Beside him Oliver was already mounting. ‘Time to go, Harry?’

  Mackenzie was nodding, Woodall looking up at him with trusting urgency. He put his boot in the stirrup and said, ‘Time to go.’

  11

  16 October 1854, 5.00 p.m. to 7.00 p.m.

  Tomorrow. He’d have guessed it anyway when they got back to camp and found half the regiment pouring out to Balaklava. Bolton called, ‘Come on, Ol-Pol! We’re told to enjoy ourselves in Piccadilly, come on!’ and Ryder knew what that meant. They’d be on stand-to from tomorrow, and the officers were giving them a last chance to relax before the battle. Perhaps their last chance to do anything at all.

  He said, ‘Go on, Poll. I could be a long time with Doherty.’

  Oliver hesitated. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me with you?’

  Even Polly Oliver would suspect something if he heard Doherty call him ‘Harry’. ‘No need to risk both of us. Just go.’

  Oliver nodded gratefully, then turned and ran after the others. Ryder brushed himself down, stuck his pride in his pocket, and marched straight to Doherty’s tent.

  ‘Won’t see you,’ said the aide outside. ‘Ask an NCO or something, don’t bother the colonel.’

  To be expected. He stared at the ground and said, ‘If you’ll just give my name I’m sure he’ll see me.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said the aide, scratching a pimple on his neck. ‘He isn’t even here. Took sick this afternoon, he’s in hospital at Balaklava.’

  The Old Man ill! ‘Is he all right? It’s not cholera?’

  The aide looked at him, and became slightly more human. ‘You really know him?’

  ‘Since I was about six,’ said Ryder, feeling sick. ‘Is it cholera?’

  ‘Hard to tell,’ said the aide. ‘Look, you’ve known him that long, you’ll know his servant. Go to the hospital and ask for Syme.’

  Drinking lemonade on the veranda a lifetime ago, and Syme saying, ‘But do you drink the flies too, Master Harry? Are they part of it?’ He said, ‘I remember Joe Syme. I’ll ask, and thank you.’

  He walked fast for the camp perimeter. Doherty was tough, seasoned in India, he’d pull through, he must. But there was more than one man’s life at stake tonight, and Ryder simply had to see him. There was no one else, and time was running out.

  ‘You’re in a hurry, Ryder.’

  Bloody Jarvis, standing right in front of him. ‘I’m off to Balaklava, Sar’nt-major. I thought we’d been told to enjoy ourselves.’

  Jarvis smiled sarcastically. ‘Without your friends?’

  There wasn’t time for his pettiness. He said, ‘That’s right,’ and tried to step past, but somehow Jarvis was in front of him again, that puffed-out chest like a wall between him and where he needed to go. ‘Sar’nt-major?’

  ‘None of your games,’ said Jarvis. ‘I saw you. Trying to see the colonel behind my back.’

  Christ! Did the man spend his whole time watching him? ‘Sar’nt-major?’

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ said Jarvis. He stepped closer, and Ryder could suddenly smell him, the warm sourness of an unwashed body beneath the lovingly sponged coat. ‘This is how it works, Trooper. You’ve got something on your mind, you talk to me. I think it merits it, I talk to Captain Marsh. Now then. What’s on your mind?’

  Impossible to tell either of them. ‘It’s on my mind that I want to see Joe Syme, the colonel’s servant. Is that allowed, Sar’nt-major?’

  ‘Syme.’ Jarvis repeated meaninglessly. He stepped back uncertainly, and Ryder didn’t wait for him to think of something else. He said, ‘Have a nice evening, Sar’nt-major,’ and walked straight past.

  He’d have liked to run, but Jarvis would be watching and he could only stride away briskly while cursing the bastard under his breath. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d had Ryder’s stripes, what else did he bloody want? He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Jarvis still standing where he’d left him, an oddly forlorn figure against the background of the bustling camp.

  But the plain sloped downhill to the gorge at Kadikoi, and as soon as he was out of sight he began to run. The battle mightn’t be tomorrow, the bombardment would need time to take effect, but Doherty was going to need every hour Ryder could give him. He might be too sick to talk to anyone, he might have to write letters, and God knew how long it would take Raglan to act on those. Ryder ignored the faint protest from his leg and ran on. On down the road, past low stone walls, farmyards, little white houses poking out of the hillside, on and down to Balaklava Harbour and the sea.

  The sun was low in the sky when he got there, bathing the orange rippled roofs with rich, warm light. The hospital was right by the waterfront, a converted warehouse, square and ugly, and a linesman outside was washing bloodstains from a battered cart. Ryder paused at the door to catch his breath, then plunged out of sunlight into darkness.

  The shutters were all closed. Candles made white blobs along a row of beds down one wall, while hanging lamps oozed light onto the tables where surgeons operated, shining white in the open eyes of a terrified patient, and illuminating the blood-trail to the limbs tub
with the brightness of a stained-glass window. The stench was tangible as a brown fog, blood and rum and faeces, vomit and sweat and filth and fear, a thickness of air that muffled the feeble moans and sobs like a blanket. Above it rasped the grinding of a saw.

  ‘What’s your business, Trooper?’ said an orderly with a filthy apron. ‘We’re too busy for visitors.’

  He couldn’t make his mind work. ‘I … I just …’

  ‘Ryder!’ said a woman’s voice. Quick, light footsteps, and Sally Jarvis walking towards him out of the murk. A white headscarf covered her hair but even in this horror the smile was hers. ‘What is it? Is it your leg?’

  He seized the inspiration. ‘That’s right,’ he said to the orderly. ‘I need stitches out. Here and here.’ He bunched up his coat to show the bandage round his waist.

  The orderly sighed heavily. ‘Can you stay and do it, Mrs J? We’ve got a double amputation coming.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, pulling up a stool. ‘Come on, Ryder, overalls off.’

  At any other time he’d have loved to have Sally’s hands on his thigh, but not here and not now. He stripped and sat on the stool, keeping his eyes open for where Doherty might be. The beds were rough pallets, perhaps just for the night’s casualties before they were taken to the ships, and there was no sign of Woodall. There had to be more rooms somewhere.

  Sally knelt in front of him and produced a pair of scissors. ‘These don’t look bad. Couldn’t Merrick do it?’

  He felt clammy with shame. ‘I didn’t ask him, Sal. Sorry.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ She brought the scissors to the first stitch and he winced at the coldness of metal against his skin. ‘I’ve got time, my shift’s finished.’

  The orderly was going through a door at the back, and he caught a glimpse of corridor and more rooms behind. Doherty must be down there somewhere, but the doorway was guarded by a redcoat as well as another orderly.

  He said casually, ‘Is Joe Syme here? Colonel Doherty’s servant?’

  She laid her palm on his thigh to pull the skin taut, and in spite of himself he stirred at the touch. ‘He’s in with the colonel. Why?’