Into the Valley of Death

by A L Berridge

  A wave broke at once over his head, stinging his eyes and washing wood-splinters into his gasping mouth. He fought the weight of sodden clothing to dodge clear of Bolton’s thrashing mare, seized the side to grab a quick gulp of air, and looked round for the men. One was floundering and shouting ahead of the flatboat, but sailors in the gig were already stretching out a boat-hook to bring him in. Oliver was all right too, his damp blond head moving cleanly through the water as he swam back to the raft. Sullivan was the priority, splashing and gurgling with every stroke, weighed down by the bloody haversack there hadn’t been time to remove.

  Ryder struck out towards him. The trooper was struggling and panicking, but Ryder hauled his arms over a bit of floating wreckage and kept him pinned there until his breathing steadied. He looked back to the flatboat, but horses were still struggling in the gap between the tangled vessels, and would have to be cleared before he could bring Sullivan through. ‘Stay there,’ he yelled in the man’s ear. ‘I’ll come back for you – stay there, that’s an order.’

  Sullivan nodded and spat water, and Ryder turned again for the channel. Oliver’s horse had fought clear and was ploughing purposefully for shore, but another was already rolling away, a spiral of blood staining the sea about its broken head. Bolton’s mare was still thrashing, eyes rolling white, lips retreating from dark gums to show big square teeth, and Oliver was trapped behind her, unable to reach the broken flatboat side. Bolton was crying ‘Bobbin, Bobbin!’ in an agony of distress and trying to pull her back on board, but the animal couldn’t climb in water, she was kicking against the artillery float and would break her back legs. The fourth horse had already done it, and was screaming and writhing as it spun away. Two, maybe three lost, and Ryder knew they had to save the mare.

  The flatboat platform was weighed down in the water and the mare had both front hooves on it; she could make it if she had purchase from behind. He put his shoulder to one side of the chestnut rump, and yelled to Oliver on the other side, ‘Push her! We’ve got to push!’ For a second it was a toss-up, the fear of an NCO and the fear of the hooves, then Oliver put his shoulder to the mark, and Ryder felt the horse boosted upwards. The water took half the weight, its front legs skittered on the platform, and Ryder kicked down to give himself more thrust. Something solid under his foot gave a moment of purchase, he stamped down and hurtled back up, sending the horse flying upwards to Bolton pulling her bridle from the deck. He grabbed at the boat side, wincing at the splash as a second figure crashed through the surface and whooshed upright beside him. ‘Oliver,’ he thought, and turned.

  A blur of grey, torn canvas, and a face that screamed. The mouth was a cave of teeth in blue distended cheeks, and the eyes black holes in which things squirmed. There were no hands or arms visible, nothing of the man left but a parcelled mummy that bobbed like a giant cork, and a nightmare face so close to Ryder’s own its stench seemed almost a parody of breath. His hands spasmed in shock and released their hold on the wood, ducking him once again below the water.

  ‘Cholera,’ his mind said. ‘Cholera, don’t drink it, don’t swallow.’ He surfaced and spat, aware suddenly of sky above him, the oaths of the sailor pushing at the corpse with a boat-hook, and the terrified wail of Oliver as he batted the thing away from him in childlike panic. It was just a corpse, a cholera victim dropped with insufficient weights from a ship ahead of their own, but for a moment memory had stripped away common sense and showed him the waterlogged and eyeless body of his own father.

  He closed his eyes against it, the sound of Oliver’s helpless retching blending with an old boyhood tune in his head, Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me your grey mare … He wondered if Oliver’s grey mare would make it to shore, then became aware of his body rising in the water as the flatboat sprang back to the level. The howitzer must be back on its own float, they were seaworthy again, and a voice was already yelling ‘Out of the water! Back on board right now!’ Bloody Jarvis. Let him wait.

  But Sullivan didn’t dare, and Ryder turned to see him abandoning the driftwood and trying to swim. His face was in the water, the soaking haversack weighing him down, he was swimming blind and the freed artillery float driving right at him. Ryder flung forward, but heard the thud ahead of him, a chorus of voices, and saw Sullivan reeling back from the float to vanish beneath the waves.

  Ryder struggled past the dead horse, glimpsed the sinking white stripe of a dragoon’s overalls, ducked for it and heaved the man up into the air. The sodden haversack pulled against him, Sullivan’s big body rolled across his own, then he was back under the water, it was in his mouth and nose, the burn scorching down into his lungs. Unbelievable, ridiculous to drown within feet of a boat, he puffed out his cheeks and kicked down. The haversack banged across his face, his flailing hands struck only Sullivan, and panic swelled in his head, driving out thought and sense, telling him only to breathe, breathe, and breathe air. Again the pain in his chest and throat, his eyes opening with shock and seeing only greyness of water, his ears strangely silent as they closed against the sound of his own drowning. Another desperate heave, but Sullivan’s weight was suddenly off him and he shot straight to the surface, blinking and spluttering, feet treading furiously as he coughed his lungs clear. Sullivan was up too, his chin supported by the dark blue arm of another man who looked anxiously at Ryder and said, ‘Are you all right?’

  Oliver. The frightened prig he’d never thought much of had ignored Jarvis’s order and come to help. Ryder spat a last mouthful in reply, and reached out to get a hand in Sullivan’s belt. ‘Bloody fine, Poll, I’m only doing this for fun. Come on, back to the boat.’

  The kid had saved him. Ludicrous, of course, and Ryder struck out even harder against the thought, but Sullivan was coming round and the fact was it took both of them to wrestle him back to the reaching arms of the sailors at the flatboat side. Ryder’s pride made him boost Oliver before hauling himself up after them, but it wasn’t enough, there was a debt there now, and the man Ryder used to be knew it had to be paid.

  But something else had to be paid first, and as he shook the water from his ears he became aware that someone was shouting again and the voice was far too aristocratic to be Jarvis’s. He shoved sopping hair out of his eyes and turned.

  Another raft had stopped in front of theirs, occupied by a single officer with a crowd of deferential servants. The officer wore the pink pants and blue dolman of the 11th Hussars, but the fur-lined cloak and mane of auburn hair under the busby established his identity beyond all doubt. It was James Brudenell, Earl of Cardigan, commander of the entire Light Brigade, a man with the head of a lion and the brain of a brick.

  ‘A disgrace, sir,’ he roared at poor old Bog. ‘I won’t have one of my regiments paddling about like sailors in front of the entire fleet! What if my Lord Raglan had seen you, hey? A fine thing, ’pon my word, shaming the Brigade before the Commander-in-Chief!’

  Ryder stood dripping on the deck, listening to the arrogant aristocratic voice and looking down at Sullivan curled and vomiting at his feet. A man had nearly died. Only a trooper, only a reprobate who’d already had to be whipped like a dog, but a man had nearly died and Ryder’s anger seared his throat as if he were back in the water and drowning.

  Cardigan ranted on. ‘When you order the men to return, it’s to happen immediately, sir, immediately! You let your own men make a fool of you!’

  Marsh’s voice sounded half strangled. ‘I’m most sorry, my lord. The men will of course be disciplined.’

  ‘See they are,’ said Cardigan, waving loftily for his oarsmen to resume. ‘Disgrace to the Brigade. You damn well see they are.’

  Punishment, of course, the commanders’ solution for everything that went wrong, and Ryder was under no illusions as to whose it would be. Cardigan was on his way, but the damage was done, he could see it in Marsh’s face: the tense, thin-lipped look of an officer who’d been upbraided in front of his men and was determined to pass on the favour as soon as he could. He shouted to the
midshipman, ‘Get under way, damn you,’ then turned ominously to Jarvis. ‘Sar’nt-major! I told you to get those men out of the water.’

  ‘And I ordered it, sir,’ said Jarvis, turning towards Ryder with a look of pleasurable anticipation. ‘They deliberately disobeyed.’

  Ryder didn’t need to hear Oliver’s terrified gasp beside him to understand. It had taken a rough sea and a drowning man to do it, but Troop Sergeant-Major Jarvis had found his chance at last.

  The rest of the journey had the blur of nightmare for Oliver. The flatboat was moving and sailors bailing out from the broken side, but part of him didn’t care if they sunk or not. His life was ruined and over, and the terror was a clawed hand round his throat.

  Why had he done it, why? He’d heard Jarvis’s order, what had possessed him to ignore it? He’d never been in trouble before, never even been reprimanded, he’d never been able to bear it and couldn’t now. Even a disapproving look from one of the ushers at school had been a torment until he could wipe out the stain with a ‘Well done, Oliver,’ and a smile. And this would be more than a look. He watched Captain Marsh in conference with Jarvis, he waited for the summons and wanted only to be dead before it came.

  ‘Step forward, Ryder!’ called Jarvis. ‘Oliver!’

  They were on a broken raft that bucked beneath them like an untrained horse, it wasn’t like parade and he didn’t know the rules. ‘Come on, Polly,’ said Ryder beside him, and his voice was deep and calming. ‘Let’s go and have a little chat with the officer.’

  He understood that, he could do it, and he followed Ryder across the slopping boards with desperate trust. Captain Marsh didn’t seem comfortable either, and that too was cause for hope. He was an officer, he’d always been fair, he must see that no Christian could have let Sullivan and Ryder drown, he must see it, he must.

  ‘Bad business, men,’ said Marsh, shaking his head sadly. ‘Those Guards spotted us, you know, and his lordship saw it. Disobeying an order and at a time of war.’

  The words hit him like stones. The Articles of War, the drum roll before a flogging …

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Ryder. ‘But not Oliver. He was acting under my orders.’

  His head swam with disbelief. Had Ryder ordered him? Had he missed it in the noise of the sea? Then he remembered what he’d seen as he’d started up the flatboat side, Ryder going under, Ryder drowning, Ryder in no position to give an order to anyone, and stared at the corporal in something close to awe.

  ‘Your orders,’ said Jarvis contemptuously. ‘You don’t give orders, Corporal, your job is to execute mine.’

  Marsh cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well, that absolves the trooper, Ryder, but I’m afraid it makes matters worse for you. A District Court-Martial …’

  Could flog him. Oliver’s thoughts rushed from side to side, banging against walls of impossibility. Own up, say he’d acted of his own accord – and tell them Ryder was lying. Say nothing, let the corporal take the blame for both of them – and see him flogged. Do the right thing, play the game, but his tongue felt swollen in his mouth and his mind was numb.

  ‘I must speak for Ryder, sir,’ said Cornet Hoare. His legs were splayed awkwardly against the rocking of the boat, but Oliver thought he’d never seen an officer look so heroic. ‘They were trying to obey the order when the accident happened. Ryder had to go back, sir, he saved Sullivan’s life. He saved me too when I nearly went overboard.’

  Marsh’s face looked quite blank for a moment, and Oliver remembered he liked things kept simple. ‘There’s Lord Cardigan, you know, Cornet; he’ll want an explanation.’

  Hoare wobbled as the boat lurched. ‘I’ll speak to Colonel Doherty, sir. I’ll explain. I’m sure he’ll be able to satisfy his lordship.’

  Marsh’s face cleared. ‘All right, yes, let’s leave it to the colonel. Right, back to your places, men; the sooner we’re off this blasted tub, the better.’

  A quick movement beside him, Jarvis stepping forward with a reddened face. ‘Sir, I protest. My authority. Corporal Ryder defied me in front of the troop.’

  Marsh looked irritated again. ‘Yes, yes, TSM, quite right, and we’ll attend to it at defaulters in the usual way. No need to bother the colonel for that, is there?’ He turned on his heel and splashed hurriedly back to the servant holding his horse.

  Jarvis seemed to have frozen to the deck. Oliver watched him fearfully, waiting to be ordered back to his place, but the sergeant-major stood quite still and stared only at Ryder as if nobody else existed. The look on his face made Oliver afraid to breathe.

  Ryder met the look steadily. After a moment he even smiled.

  Jarvis’s voice came out so low it was almost a growl. ‘I suppose you think you’ve got away with it.’

  Ryder’s mouth twitched. ‘No, Sar’nt-major.’

  ‘No,’ said Jarvis. Oliver became aware of a faint wheezing noise, and realized with shock it was the sergeant-major’s breathing. ‘No. You’re going to wish you’d had that court-martial, I can promise you that.’

  ‘Damn it, Jarvis!’ yelled Marsh. ‘Move, will you? They want to trim the boat!’

  Jarvis’s colour deepened, but he blinked furiously and shouted, ‘Back in line!’ in quite his normal bellow.

  Oliver stumbled eagerly back to his place in the ranks, hoping for reassurance in the familiar order. He whispered to Ryder, ‘He won’t really do anything, will he, Corp?’

  ‘To you, Poll?’ Ryder’s mouth twisted with amusement, but his eyes remained dark. ‘Oh, I think you’re safe enough.’

  He didn’t feel it. There was no Misty beside him, no reins through his arm, and the world had changed since he last stood there. It had all seemed as simple as not stepping on cracks in the pavement, follow the rules and be safe, but if an NCO could ignore an officer to hurt a man if he felt like it, then nothing made sense and nothing was safe at all.

  The flatboat was breaking up by the time they reached shore, and Ryder knew they’d be lucky to get it back to the Jason in one piece. That was a storm brewing in the sky and there’d be no more horses landed tonight.

  He splashed Wanderer through the shallows, stretched with the relief of solid ground beneath his feet, and looked around the beach. There were First Division markers to their left and Guards already forming column for a march inland, but the traders were all thronging down by the Light Division, where the cliffs shrunk to knee height and a track led up to the country beyond. Their own stretch was bare, except for the distant figure of a single Highlander standing rigid guard over a pile of packs as if he thought the Cossacks might charge the beach for the express purpose of stealing them.

  It didn’t matter. The bluejackets were already unloading the baggage, and in moments he’d be back on horseback where he belonged. He started towards the scrimmage already forming in the rush for saddles, but hesitated at the sight of Oliver and Sullivan standing apart, dripping and disconsolate, cavalrymen without horses. They’d have a long wait for remounts, poor buggers, and from the look of the sky a bloody wet one. Oliver would be all right, he was young and strong, and anyway that debt was paid, but Sullivan was a different matter. He’d been weak when they started, he’d had a bang on the head and been half-drowned, he’d never survive a night out in a storm.

  Ryder strolled over. ‘Come on, Joe. Go back in the gig, the surgeon will want to look at that thick skull of yours.’

  Sullivan glared at him out of bloodshot eyes. ‘I came here to fight a bloody war. You want to stop me?’ His scanty hair was plastered to his head and the gash on his brow already swelling.

  Ryder hesitated. He’d seen Sullivan as a weakness, then a bulk that could drown him, but now he looked at the beaten trooper and saw only a man. He grinned and shook his head. ‘You’re a pig-headed bastard, Joe.’

  Sullivan looked suspiciously at him, then the corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘And does it not take one to know one, Harry Ryder?’

  Ryder laughed and went for his own saddle, but he’d taken only two
paces when Marsh called, ‘Ah, Ryder, just a minute,’ and he turned to see the captain flanked by Hoare and an ominously smiling Jarvis.

  ‘Sir?’

  Marsh coughed politely. ‘Just lend your horse to the cornet, will you? I need him with me for the patrol, and the TSM thinks you’ll be better for a rest.’

  On an empty beach with a storm coming. He handed over the bridle without a word, glad at least it was Hoare. The cornet had been a trump on the boat.

  Marsh cleared his throat. ‘We’ll be back in a couple of days, but you can wait with Oliver and Sullivan for remounts from the Simla. They’ll be landing shortly with Lieutenant Grainger and the rest of the troop.’

  Tomorrow perhaps, or the next day. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Marsh, and turned rather hastily to his own horse.

  Ryder politely saluted his back and turned to see Moody at his elbow holding out a saddle.

  ‘Thought you’d better have it anyway, Corp,’ he said with a deference that didn’t match the malice in his pond-water eyes. ‘You’ll need something to sit on while you wait.’ Beside him Prosser was openly grinning, and Jarvis paused with his foot in the stirrup to watch.

  To hell with them. Ryder held out his arms for the saddle, then looked the trooper bang in the eyes and said, ‘Thanks, Moody. I won’t forget.’

  Moody backed away even more hurriedly than Marsh had done. Jarvis mounted heavily, but made no move to join the patrol and Ryder guessed he was waiting to deliver some suitably unpleasant parting shot. ‘Yes, Sar’nt-major?’

  Jarvis’s saddle creaked as he leaned down. ‘Oh, come, Ryder. You’re not troubled by the thought of a little rain?’