Into the Valley of Death Read online

  Ryder’s laugh was louder this time. ‘You won’t run. You can’t. We were alone today, but next time you’ll be in the line, and the man beside you will stop you running.’

  He thought he understood that. ‘You mean you will.’

  Ryder shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter who it is. It’s the man next to you, the one next to him, the man behind, all of you standing together. Imagine moving out of the line, trotting past that lot to run away. Who’s going to do that?’

  There were stars in the sky, little ones twinkling. ‘No one.’

  ‘No one,’ said Ryder. He stretched out his legs and settled back with a sigh of enjoyment. ‘Because if they do it’s all up. If the man next to you breaks, then it stops mattering, you go straight after him, then the whole bloody lot breaks and runs. One man can save a whole army just by standing still.’

  Oliver thought back to the afternoon. If any of the others had bolted he knew he’d have done the same. ‘Then we all did. Bolton, Fisk. Jordan. You’re saying we’re all heroes.’

  The straw crackled as Ryder turned his head. ‘That’s the strength of the line, Poll. You’ll see.’

  The murmuring was dying away around them. After a moment Ryder gave a little snore.

  Oliver smiled, and went on looking at the sky. He didn’t need to talk any more, anyway. He knew who’d really saved him today, and he would be there again tomorrow, the man who rode next to him in the line.

  4

  19 September 1854, 3.00 a.m. to 6.30 p.m.

  A distant bang cracked into Ryder’s sleep. His eyes opened to darkness, the prickliness of oat-straw under his cheek, then it came again, the dull bark of a carbine.

  Someone shouted, ‘Turn out the inlying picquet! Inlying picquet to fall in!’

  He was already moving, thrusting his mess-tin into the haversack, grappling his straw-covered blanket into a roll, turning for Wanderer’s picket pole. Oliver stood beside him, pale-faced and bleary, saying ‘Should I come? Is it all of us? Should I come?’ He said ‘Not yet, Poll, go back to sleep,’ and swung himself into the saddle.

  A pale flash ripped the darkness to his front, another bang, and the ping of a ball whipping past. A trumpet called and Ryder turned to fall in, steering Wanderer through the confusion of snorting horses and sleepy riders asking ‘What is it? What’s going on?’ The crack and flash of another shot, and a yelp from the camp behind. Someone had been hit.

  The line was forming, and he placed himself firmly to Jordan’s left. Staccato shots ahead suggested the outlying picquet were engaged, and movement shuffled along the line as men sprung their own carbines. Ryder did the same, wondering how the hell he’d know what to shoot at in this dark.

  But the officers seemed doubtful too, and Ryder felt the first suspicion of the truth. Marsh moved them out very slowly, an uncertain progress at the walk, and he could hear hoarse, confused voices shouting at each other in the gloom. The shooting didn’t seem right either, isolated cracks and bangs from their own vedettes on the crest, and when another ball whined past his shoulder he was almost sure the flash was in their outlying picquet. ‘Friendly fire, damn it,’ muttered the voice of Lieutenant Grainger behind. ‘What’s got the Hussars jumping?’

  A voice ahead bellowed ‘Cease firing! Cease firing!’ A moment later the brigade major galloped past their front, shouting it again: ‘Cease firing there!’ One by one the picquets and vedettes stopped shooting, and a hundred men sat still in their saddles as they strained to listen. Silence. Three hours’ sleep, dragged out in the middle of the night, and it was a bloody false alarm.

  They draggled back to camp muttering with discontent. The whole camp was roused now, and Oliver said a servant in the Lancers had actually been hit. There was only one other casualty, an 8th Hussar coming in with a rough dressing wrapped round his leg, and Jordan yelled ‘Serve you right, you jumpy beggar, some of us need our sleep!’

  The Hussar stopped to glare at him. ‘Not our fault. There were Cossacks, there bloody were. I saw their fur hats. They were trotting right in front of us.’

  ‘Picking daisies in the dark?’ said Jordan. ‘Come on, chum, admit it, you lost your bleeding front.’

  Ryder had nearly done it himself in Burma, lost his bearings at night and mistaken movement in his own camp for the enemy. He dismounted wearily and said, ‘Leave it, Telegraph, it could happen to anyone.’

  ‘Corp,’ whispered Oliver, and his shoulders looked stiff with tension. ‘Corp, what’s that?’ He was looking at the sky.

  Ryder saw only clouds at first, but they were rising in thick black columns rather than gentle puff-balls, spreading like a stain over the dark blue of the night. The muttering of the picquet lapsed into hush, and faint in the air he knew he was smelling smoke.

  ‘Told you,’ said the Hussar in bitter triumph. ‘Cossacks. They’ve gone and fired the village.’

  ‘But why?’ said Oliver. ‘Why would they … ?’

  A second cloud was rising now, a dark, roiling plume to the north, and Ryder remembered the trim white-walled houses of the village they’d foraged at yesterday. ‘They’re cutting off our supplies. They know we’re on the way.’

  ‘How can they?’ said Oliver uncertainly. ‘We didn’t know ourselves till last night.’

  ‘Looks like they know more than we do,’ said Jordan, tugging his blanket back down from his horse. ‘You reckon they’ll try to stop us?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Ryder thought of other villages they’d passed, of two Crim-Tartars smiling as they mended a fence; he thought of the Russians on the move through the night and the long, long road ahead of them to Sebastopol. He said, ‘Forget about sleep, Billy. If Raglan knows what he’s doing he’ll get us on the road right now.’

  Dennis Woodall squinted at the smoke-filled sky and guessed it must be every bit of nine o’clock. At four they’d paraded, four in the ruddy morning, and here they still were waiting for the cavalry escort. He cursed the army’s inefficiency and turned back to his letter.

  Of course the Frogs have the best of it as usual. They are marching by the lower road, with the fleet to protect their right and the Gallant British to protect their left, and with sea breezes to cool them all the way. We must march right in the sun, and I tell you, Maise, it is set to be a Scorcher.

  Summer in England, taking Maisie to the Great Exhibition on a shilling day, Mr Woodall out walking with his pretty little wife. Summer and the band playing, Maisie swinging her parasol like a Guard on parade and saying ‘Ain’t I a lady now though, Denny? Ain’t I a lady now?’

  His brow creased a little at the thought of that parasol. It had been very dear, and the income from the dad’s savings bonds was only just enough for the rent as it was. But she’d seen it and had to have it, like the adorable child she was, that was Maisie for you, that was just Maise.

  A fine scattering of ash landed right on the paper. He blew away the grit and wrote on.

  And it will get worse. The Russians are burning the villages near the Post Road to Sebastopol, and our water-party say they have filled the wells with earth. How we are to manage on the march I cannot think. They say it will take four hours for us to reach the River Bulganek.

  The trumpet at last, and the sergeant-major bawling ‘Back to the ranks, fall in!’ Woodall thrust the letter into his coatee, brushed himself down, and stalked majestically to his place.

  ‘Bloody stifling out here,’ said that uncouth Truman next to him. ‘You got any water?’

  ‘No,’ said Woodall, clapping a hand on his canteen to stop it swishing. ‘Haven’t you?’

  Truman shook his head. ‘Thought we’d get a chance this morning.’

  Woodall silently congratulated himself on his prudence in having replenished his own supply last night. Overhead the sun was already beginning to feel uncomfortably warm.

  By noon it was blazing. Mackenzie tutted sympathetically at the sight of the Guards marching valiantly in full bearskins. The poor creatures must be fair roasting. His own
bonnet was not so bad, and at least his legs were cool.

  It had been a grand start from Eupatoria, but the bands were quiet now and the colours hung limp in the still heat. No one seemed much for the talking. There was only the swishing of their legs through the long grass, the humming of flies, and the bitter scent of appleringie crushed by the passing of many boots.

  ‘It’s a fierce sun, isn’t it, Niall?’ Young Murray was beside him. His face was flushed and sweaty, and his eyes looked feverish.

  Mackenzie passed him his barrel. ‘Here, have some more water.’

  Murray nodded his thanks and fumbled the canteen to his lips. The poor laddie had only been a day back to duty since the dysentery, but he’d still refused to go to the ships, and Mackenzie understood. It was always better to stay with your friends. As he took back his canteen he looked with pleasure at the sturdy Highlanders around him, marching in perfect step as it might be one single man.

  But the country around was not so good, and he pursed his lips at another cloud of smoke in the sky ahead. He would like to catch up with these Russians, and show them what he thought of men who destroyed people’s living just to deny their goods to the enemy. Such brave soldiers they must be to kill an old woman’s cow and burn a whole village’s grainstore out of fear of the terrible avenging army that marched towards them, British and French and Turkish, maybe sixty thousand strong.

  He stumbled against something, and looked down to see a man fallen by the wayside. A Coldstream Guard with his bearskin off, twitching and dribbling on the dry ground. Another with the cholera, poor soul, maybe the third he’d seen this morning. Mackenzie broke ranks to move him safely out of the track, then saw the lowered eyebrows of Sergeant Macpherson and quickly slipped back into place. It was a shame to leave the man, but their officers would have made provision for such things. There would be doctors along by and by, litters and wee carts at the rear, that would be the way of it. He turned to smile at Murray, but the laddie’s face had changed, the skin round his eyes stood out in white patches like an owl, and his upper lip was swimming in sweat.

  ‘Andra,’ said Mackenzie urgently. ‘Andra.’

  Murray’s head turned jerkily towards him. ‘It’s a fierce sun, isn’t it, Niall?’ Then his eyes rolled like a horse’s and his head dropped suddenly as his knees crunched down on the track.

  Mackenzie stopped as the march went on, men parting and trudging past him as if he were a rock in a stream. Andrew Murray from his own Strathcarron, the wee lad who’d only come to the army to follow himself! He hunkered down, wrapped a brawny arm under the bairn’s legs, then hoisted him like a sack over his shoulder.

  He straightened painfully and saw another man stopped before him, the terrifying Mr Macpherson himself. Mackenzie kept his arm protectively across Murray’s body and did his best to stand to attention, but the sergeant only looked sadly at him and nodded his head twice. ‘Aye,’ he said heavily. ‘Aye.’ Then he turned and marched on.

  Mackenzie adjusted the weight on his shoulder and started after him, one tentative pace after another, until gradually he regained his rhythm and marched again in perfect step with the others.

  Ryder’s mouth was dry and it hurt to swallow, but he dug in his heels and rode on.

  Water. Men had been falling from their saddles for want of it, and the Bulganek could still be hours away. Their small party had empty barrels for all ‘G’ Troop slung round their necks, and Ryder had another four he’d found abandoned by men too far gone to see a future when they’d ever be filled. He was beginning to fear they never would.

  Six villages they’d tried now, but not a drop of water to be had in any of them. This was their last chance, the little hamlet they’d watered at yesterday. It was far enough from the road for the Russians not to have bothered with it, and the bastards couldn’t know they were even aware of its existence. It was still a mile away, but Ryder kept his eyes on the sky and prayed for it to stay untainted by smoke.

  It was clear. They rode in warily, but the buildings were intact, the villagers greeted them with friendly recognition, and the well, thank God, was clean. Two stout labourers helped them with the bucket, and as one by one Ryder slung the full canteens round his body he felt the sweat on his forehead start to cool. He hadn’t even drunk yet, but already the thirst was receding.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ said Cornet Hoare, prowling up and down in his impatience to return to the apron-strings of the column. ‘Lieutenant Grainger will be worrying where we’ve got to.’

  He wouldn’t give a damn when they came back with water. Ryder slung his last canteen and started to help Fisk with the rest.

  ‘Sir,’ called Oliver from his post at the far barn. ‘Horsemen coming, maybe half a mile. They’re Cossacks.’

  Ryder stared. Were the Russians burning everything in the whole Crimea just in case the British might have found it? It seemed ludicrous, but Jarvis was sure, he was already leading out the horses, and Ryder turned quickly to join him.

  ‘Just this last bucket,’ said Fisk, still filling. ‘We can easily outride them.’

  Ryder swung round. ‘They mustn’t even see us here, for God’s sake. What will they do to these people if they know they helped us?’

  Hoare glanced up at the puzzled villagers, and Ryder saw his face grow older with understanding. ‘He’s right, Fisk. Come now.’

  Now it was, and the five of them rode out at full tilt, gobbling up the grass beneath their hooves in the rush to put ground between themselves and the Cossacks. They hadn’t been seen, couldn’t have, but when Ryder finally looked back over his shoulder he saw black smoke already rising from the distant barns. The Russians were burning the place anyway.

  And for nothing. People were being ruined, their livelihoods destroyed, and the stupidity of it banged in his head all the way back. If they’d left a day ago, just one day, all these villages would have been safe. If Raglan had let the ships carry wagons, ambulances, all the things they’d travelled without in the hope of being able to buy them here, if, if, and if the British Army had known what it was doing and got on the road yesterday when the French were ready, none of this need have happened.

  And men wouldn’t be dying for lack of water. The column had progressed two miles since they left it, but the procession was so spread the stragglers were still visible when they regained the Post Road. For the first time he saw the back of the column, a trail of cattle dung, two arabas laden with sick and dying men, medical orderlies stripped to the waist in the baking heat, their fellows in the 4th Light Dragoons scooping up discarded canteens and turning over the shapeless red bundles that were dead men in the grass. The detritus of a mighty army, and this one had yet to face its enemy.

  Hoare was already out of earshot, cantering eagerly back to the front, and Ryder turned in desperation to Jarvis. ‘Permission to help these men, Sar’nt-major? They’re just being left to –’

  ‘Denied,’ said Jarvis. ‘We’re ordered back, now move.’ He turned and rode after Hoare, followed by Fisk and a subdued-looking Oliver.

  Ryder swore under his breath as he urged Wanderer after them. He tried not to look at the trudging men he was passing, the worn, dusty faces that turned towards the rattling and clanking associated with water but saw only the privileged cavalry and turned hopelessly away. Of course they did, and he deserved it. He’d thought the cavalry were suffering enough in their thick uniforms and heavy shakos, but these poor bastards had to carry their own baggage as well. He scanned the faces of the ADCs as they cantered along the flanks, looking for the one he knew, the one who cared about ordinary soldiers, but in this whole damned self-important army that was the one officer he saw no sign of at all.

  His horse veered, and there was a man face-down on the ground, surrounded by a cloud of humming flies. He looked away fast, and saw they’d caught up with the First Division. The three Highland regiments were still marching in good order, but a man in the middle was carrying another, and the eyes that met Ryder’s were Nial
l Mackenzie’s.

  Madness took him. He swung close to the column, unslung a barrel and reached over men’s heads to hand it to Mackenzie. ‘There’s a river coming up, tell them,’ he called. ‘Take a drink and pass it on.’

  Other men crowded round at once. Discipline held and no one snatched, each man taking only a quick frantic gulp, then passing the canteen to the next. Jarvis yelled, ‘Back to your place, Corporal, that’s an order!’ but Ryder was beyond caring. He rode to the break between the Scots Fusiliers and the Coldstream, dismounted, and plunged in with his second spare canteen. It was the same here, the way men seized the barrel with shaking hands, water dribbling down their chins as they struggled to make their parched throats swallow. What kind of army made its men march in gear like this, with no provision for sick or wounded? What kind of men?

  He blundered back to his horse and rode on to the Grenadiers. Woodall was on the outside, thank God, but when he offered him a canteen the Guard mumbled ‘I’m all right’ and wouldn’t meet his eye. A dozen other hands were stretching towards him, voices crying ‘This way, Lily,’ and one man reaching out a coin, begging ‘A shilling, Corp, shilling for a drink.’ He pressed the barrel into a sergeant’s hands and said again, ‘There’s a river ahead, tell them it’s not far, have a drink and pass it on.’

  He had only one more spare canteen. He stopped by the Royal Fusiliers in the Light Division, again the barrel, again the stretching hands, but one was too far gone, and another man was helping him out of the ranks into the gap between themselves and the seaward column. The canteen would never reach them, but there was still his own, it was his to share if he chose. He slid from Wanderer’s back and shoved through the ranks on foot.

  The Fusilier on the ground looked up at his approach, a dark, hollow-cheeked face with wrinkles at the corners of bloodshot eyes. Ryder knelt beside him, heard the other say ‘Here you go, Morry, a bleeding Good Samaritan all your own’, and put the mouthpiece to the cracked lips. The elderly man sucked like a starving baby, and Ryder tilted the barrel to give him more. It was almost a shock when the thin hand came up to push the canteen away, and a hoarse voice said, ‘Enough, friend, the Bloomer here will want some.’