Into the Valley of Death

by A L Berridge

  He looked back at the lines for the rum ration, and in the back of his mind he felt the first glimmering of an idea.

  They did a grand job by Andrew Murray, with the minister to read the service and the pipes to play him into the earth. Not that it was much of a drop, scarce three feet, but it was more than was given some other poor souls, left behind to die alone. Andrew didn’t die alone. He’d died on his friend’s broad shoulder, quietly and no fuss, and it wasn’t till Mackenzie laid him down by the river he even knew he was gone.

  He knew it now. Andrew was with God and rejoicing, but Mackenzie was left with his feet on the grass of a muddy river in the Crimea and the knowledge the laddie would still be alive if he hadn’t followed himself into the army. He’d a mother in Strathcarron, and what Mackenzie was to say to her he could not think. The officers would write her, but she hadn’t her letters, she’d have to take what they wrote to the postmaster and have him put on his spectacles to tell her her boy was dead. Mackenzie’s heart swelled in his body at the thought.

  ‘Always the way of it,’ said Farquhar as they walked from the grave. ‘The Lord takes the best, and leaves us miserable sinners to drag on in our suffering.’

  If Farquhar was anything to go by, then He certainly left the most miserable. Mackenzie hunched his shoulders and began to edge away from the crowd.

  Old Lennox trotted after him. ‘Come now, Niall,’ he said, patting his elbow. ‘Come back with the mess. MacNab has thistles gathered to make a fire; you need a wee dram and a warm.’

  He didn’t want to be treated like a bairn. He wanted Andrew, the frightened gillie who’d turned to the stalker in his first days to say, ‘Help me, Niall, I’m scared Mr MacLaverty will turn me off.’ He wanted Andrew Murray, who saw him as a man.

  He said, ‘Thank you, Mr Lennox, but I’ll maybe bide a while till I’m fit company.’

  Lennox said, ‘When you’re ready then, laddie,’ and gave his arm another pat before tiptoeing away with Farquhar and MacNab. Mackenzie felt their pity of him like a wall.

  ‘Mackenzie!’ called another voice, brisk with purpose. ‘There you are, I’ve been looking for you all over.’

  A Grenadier Guard striding through the camp, and Mackenzie could not but smile at the sight of him. Only Woodall would wear his bearskin after dark. ‘Are you well, man? There were a muckle of yours down on the march.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ said Woodall, avoiding the eyes of him as he had that first day. ‘But here, look what I’ve brought us.’ He opened his bundle to show staves of a broken rum barrel, and stood back with pride. ‘There, look – firewood. No one else will have thought of that.’

  The gestures spoke of showmanship, but the Guard’s eyes held appeal and Mackenzie’s heart was stirred. Old Lennox had a fire and he hadn’t wanted it, but Woodall was offering him something else.

  He said, ‘That’s a grand find now. Were you thinking we might … ?’ He jerked his head back towards the river and the cavalry bivouac beyond.

  Woodall shrugged carelessly. ‘Well, if you’ve nothing better to do.’

  Mackenzie never glanced back at the pitiful mound of earth behind. ‘No,’ he said, and smiled at the man. ‘I’ve nothing better to do at all.’

  The Bridge House was daunting after dark. Only a few hours ago it had been someone’s home, but now it was a heap of charred and ash-strewn timbers with jagged spars sticking out over the blackened stones. No one would camp here, it offered the only privacy in the bivouac, and right now that was what Ryder wanted. He sat down on a flower tub, took off his coat, and dug out his knife.

  The yellow chevrons were sewn on tight, but he wriggled the blade under the first stitches and pulled them away clean. What did it matter anyway? The stripes had never given authority to change anything, only the duty to enforce orders that would get men killed, and the responsibility to take the blame when things went wrong. He ripped them both away and turned to the second sleeve.

  This one was harder. The first stitch was browned, bloodied where he’d pricked his finger as he sewed it on. He remembered the pride he’d taken in it, a laughable thing in a man who’d once worn an officer’s epaulettes on his shoulder. Not now. He tore through the last stitches, ripped away the chevrons, and clenched them in his hand.

  Footsteps crunched in the debris. A thick shadow took shape as it passed by the lamp on the bridge, but he’d have known who it was anyway. Wherever he’d hidden, Jarvis would have hunted him down.

  ‘I’ll have those,’ said the sergeant-major. His palm stretched out whitely in the gloom. ‘The quartermaster will want them for the next man.’

  They were both off duty, and Ryder handed over the stripes without bothering to stand. ‘There, Sar’nt-major. Does that make you happy?’

  Jarvis looked down at the crumpled cloth, then closed his hand over it in a fist. ‘You should never have had them. Never.’ His eyes came up again, and Ryder was surprised at the lack of triumph in them. ‘You have to earn things like these, Ryder. You have to give yourself to the army if you want her to give anything back.’

  Sod the army, he’d given it enough. ‘If you say so, Sar’nt-major.’

  Jarvis thrust the chevrons in his pocket. ‘You don’t care what I say, do you? You think you’re above the whole lot of us.’

  Ryder leaned back against the blackened wall, and felt the warmth of it through his coat. ‘If you say so, Sar’nt-major.’

  Jarvis was very still. A haze of smoke floated from the ruins and drifted between them like grey breath. ‘I know so. I’ve known it since you first showed up at the Depot. But it won’t do you a bit of good now. You’ll do what you’re told now. And if you don’t I’ll have the skin off your back before we throw you out in the gutter. You got that?’

  ‘If you say so, Sar’nt –’

  The crop shot out to smack against his jaw. The pain of it throbbed like toothache, but Jarvis kept the whip there to hold his face steady and lowered his own to speak right into it. ‘And there’ll be no more of that, do you understand?’

  Worse than on the beach, harder than on the beach, but the penalty for resistance was still to be stripped and reduced to butcher’s meat in front of the whole regiment. He swallowed hard and forced out the words ‘Yes, Sar’nt-major.’

  The crop stroked gently down the line of his jaw and was lifted away. ‘Yes, Sar’nt-major,’ said Jarvis, and rocked back on his heels. ‘Yes.’ He looked down at Ryder with evident satisfaction, hitched his overalls over his paunch, then turned and swaggered away.

  Ryder didn’t move. It was much easier just to stay where he was, gazing at the ruins and looking out over the patches of fire in the British bivouac. Sally would be there somewhere, making her husband’s tea. He listened to the distant army noises on the evening air: faint raucous laughter, the barking of an NCO in a picquet, splashing from the river as the Horse Artillery watered, a woman haranguing someone, and far off in the Second Division the tune of a flute. They never changed, those noises. He’d been hearing them his whole life.

  He reached in his haversack and drew out the gun. His father’s Navy Colt, the one he’d picked up from the bungalow floor where his father’s hand had dropped it. It was a beautiful piece, an officer’s gun, almost the only thing he hadn’t sold. He half-cocked it to spin the cylinder, five chambers greased, the sixth empty for safety, ready for action, ready. He paused a moment, weighing it in his hand. What had his father been thinking when he last held it? What was the final, final thing, the last unbearable image that made him pull the trigger?

  Hooves clattered in the darkness, a horseman turning for the bridge. Ryder stood slowly, then caught a gleam of gold from the forage cap, and thrust the gun behind his back. The officer turned his head at the movement, the lamp glowed between them, and in the face of a stranger Ryder saw the start of recognition.

  He knew at once who it had to be. The grey horse and blue saddlecloth of the ADC who’d been with them on patrol, the same clean-shaven face,
but the recognition meant he was that other man too, the one who’d sat under a wagon in the rain and taught them the game they called ‘bridge’. It had been him then, it was him again now, and as if to prove it he gave Ryder a friendly nod.

  An officer, an ADC on the eve of a battle, and he paused to acknowledge a lowly cavalryman standing in his shirtsleeves. Something sparked in Ryder, and before he could stop himself he called ‘Good luck tomorrow, sir!’

  The horseman checked, and looked over his shoulder. ‘And to you, Corporal!’ he said, laughing. ‘And to you!’

  He was off again at once, but left behind the echo of that laughter, the natural exuberance of a man on the brink of a battle. As Ryder watched him ride away he became aware that the village too was alive with anticipation, gallopers pounding towards the bivouacs, staff officers flocking round the Post House where Raglan’s entourage had set up base. Another ADC turned left at the bridge and galloped towards the distant white tents of the French. This was it, this was business, two armies readying themselves for battle.

  But there was a third, and when he lifted his eyes to the slopes beyond he felt his breathing stop. Against the dark folds of the distant hills bloomed little orange blobs, haloed with light. The Russians on the heights beyond the River Alma, sitting round fires of their own. The Russians, waiting for them.

  His hand tightened on the butt of the Colt. There was the real enemy, and he didn’t need anything more. Smash through them, Doherty had said, and now the prospect filled him with elation. Those jeering Cossacks, the sneers of their own infantry, all of that would be wiped out tomorrow. Perhaps everything would. Sullivan was right, and in the end there was only this, the one thing that never left him, the need of and joy in a fight.

  He looked curiously at the gun in his hand, then stuck it back in the haversack and slung on his coat. As he set off back for the bivouac he began to whistle.

  Oliver stared intently at the kettle, and wished Prosser and Moody would just go away. They’d never liked Ryder, and everything they said was a beastly gloat.

  ‘Should have been a whipping really,’ said Moody’s voice above him. ‘But he’s lost his pretty stripes, the sar’nt-major says so.’

  Bolton made a tutting noise, but Fisk gave an amused snort. ‘Serve him right. Let’s see him drill like everyone else, eh? Won’t be so many of the funny remarks then.’

  Would the kettle never boil? He’d had to make the fire out of thistles and dried cow manure and the flame was hardly stronger than a candle.

  ‘What do you say, Pretty Polly?’ said Prosser, and a boot nudged him in the ribs. ‘You think it serves Ryder right?’

  A familiar sick feeling began to ache behind his breastbone. They’d had people like Prosser at school too. ‘It’s not my business, is it?’

  ‘Yes it is,’ said Prosser, and the boot was harder this time. ‘You took him supper last night, you little toady, we saw you. You think it serves your pal right?’

  He wasn’t going to lie, not for a thug like Jake Prosser. ‘No. Men were dying, Ryder helped them, I wish I’d done the same.’

  Prosser’s mouth fell open, but Moody’s tightened to form a line in his face like a slit. ‘Disobeyed orders, Oliver? You don’t mean you wish that.’

  The danger suddenly hit him, he saw it in Bolton’s widened eyes and tiny shake of the head. He said hesitantly, ‘I just wish the orders had been different, that’s all.’

  Moody smiled. ‘You think the sar’nt-major gave the wrong order?’

  ‘Ol-Pol,’ said Bolton urgently. ‘Ol-Pol, look, the kettle’s boiling.’

  Moody stepped in front of him. ‘Well, Polly Oliver?’

  Oliver blinked at him, trapped. ‘I … I don’t know. I just wish things had turned out differently.’

  There was something almost inhuman about Moody. His hair was slicked back so neatly it might have been painted on, and his eyes had the grey flatness of stagnant water. ‘Then you’re a fool. Don’t you realize there’s a corporal’s vacancy now? You could be in for it, you’ve got good-conduct, same as me. Don’t tell me you’d throw that away for a cocky jumped-up bastard like Harry Ryder.’

  ‘Who’s a friend of mine,’ said a tranquil voice. Moody jumped back, and into the firelight stepped red and white stockings, a Black Watch kilt, a red coatee, and above them the curly hair and calm smile of Niall Mackenzie.

  For a second Oliver couldn’t speak. Even Moody was visibly taken aback, and could only twitch his shoulders and say ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mackenzie kindly. ‘And I don’t just like what you were saying.’

  Prosser shoved straight through to Moody’s side. ‘And who do you think you are, barging into a private conversation? You can’t just –’

  ‘Brigade of Guards,’ said another voice, and a Grenadier Guard loomed out of the dark, bearskin-tall and ramrod-straight and quite unmistakably Woodall. ‘Her Majesty’s Brigade of Guards, so don’t be giving us any of your lip.’ He dumped a bundle on the ground, sniffed in distaste, and said, ‘Here, Polly, why does your fire smell of cow shit?’

  Fisk stared, Bolton edged discreetly away on his knees, but Oliver just said ‘Hullo, Woodall’ and grinned.

  ‘Guards!’ said Moody, and gave an unconvincing laugh. ‘You’re infantry in the cavalry camp, that’s what you are, and you’ll catch it hot if you throw your weight about here.’

  Woodall’s face froze in disbelief, but Mackenzie laid a calming hand on his arm. ‘Losh, man, we’re all of the same side, and a battle coming. Let’s save it for the heathens.’

  His tone was peaceable, and Prosser clearly sensed weakness.’ I thought you Sawnies were supposed to be good at brawling. Savages, aren’t you? Like a fight?’

  Mackenzie smiled slowly, and Oliver stopped wondering how someone so soft-hearted could be a soldier. ‘Aye, we do. If there’s a man worth the fighting.’

  Prosser stepped backwards, and that menacingly scarred face was suddenly only the badge of a man who’d suffered smallpox. ‘All right. All –’

  ‘No, it’s not all right,’ said Moody venomously. ‘He’s insulting us, and I’m not having it.’ He looked round the bivouac and called to his own mess. ‘Here, look, here’s fun! We’ve got infantry come to take a pop at the regiment!’

  He made it sound like a rag, and Jordan whooped as he leaped to his feet. They were all coming, Trotter and Blackwood too, and for the first time Mackenzie looked uncertain. Woodall said nothing, but reached down into his bundle and brought out a stave of wood.

  Oliver scrambled quickly to his feet. ‘It’s nothing, Telegraph. They’re just my friends, that’s all.’

  ‘They’re infantry,’ said Moody, swinging round to address the crowd. ‘You heard them this afternoon, didn’t you? “Useless peacock bastards”? They think we’re scared to fight.’

  A low noise like a growl rumbled from the troop, then into it strode a tall dark figure with an air of assurance that parted the crowd like smoke. ‘Do stop shouting, Moody,’ said Ryder. ‘You’ll wake the bloody Russians.’

  Ryder himself, as confident as if none of this had happened and it was all a ghastly mistake. The tension broke at once, and Jordan burst out laughing.

  Moody reddened with fury. ‘Not me, Ryder, it’s these friends of yours trying to stir up trouble.’

  Ryder looked at him for perhaps two seconds, then turned to the crowd. ‘Jordan, Trotter, Fisk, Bolton, were my friends causing trouble?’

  He spoke with a new authority, he spoke like an officer, but when Oliver glanced at his sleeve he saw only the dark cloth and ragged threads of a man with no rank at all.

  ‘No, chum,’ said Jordan hastily. Bolton shook his head violently, and even Prosser mumbled and looked away.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ryder. ‘Now crawl back under your flat stone, Moody, I’ve got friends to see.’

  Moody was looking at those sleeves. ‘Stow it, Ryder, you’re no one now. You’re not a corporal, you don’t tell anyone what
to do.’

  Ryder took a step forward, just one, and said softly, ‘Come on, Moody. Do you really think I need stripes to deal with you?’

  Oliver had never seen his eyes so dark. It was almost as if he wanted a fight, really hoped for it; he looked as if he wanted nothing else.

  Moody’s face was yellow. His eyes flicked to the unmoving crowd, then he swallowed and said, ‘No. Look, it was just a rag, that’s all.’

  Ryder went on staring at him for a moment, then his shoulders relaxed. ‘A rag?’ he said lightly. ‘Well, next time you want one you know where to find me, don’t you?’ He turned his back and strolled to the fire.

  The crowd broke up with a murmur of laughter. Moody stalked away with Prosser, and Oliver saw with relief that they walked past Jarvis’s fire without stopping. He realized with surprise that nothing had really happened anyway, it was only people being silly because they all felt tense.

  And already everything was back to normal. Woodall looked complacent again, and was actually giving his stave of wood to Bolton, saying ‘Here, try this for your fire. You’ll find it smells better than cow dung.’ Fisk was offering coffee, clearly keen to make amends, but Ryder said, ‘It’s all right, thanks, Albie, we’re too many to barge in on you,’ and set off to the bank to set up a base of their own.

  Oliver never doubted which one he should go to. Woodall and Mackenzie were back, as he should have known they would be, as if they were meant to be a group and together. He watched Mackenzie blowing ferociously on the kindling to get the wood to light, he watched Woodall swinging a heavy kettle as he sauntered back from the river bank, he watched Ryder sprawl on the ground and say, ‘Don’t suppose any of you bastards thought to get my rum ration,’ and felt a warmth inside that defied the cold of the Crimean night.